UC-NRLF 


No. 
Division 


itg  af  {|{ilH*M|ttia, 


$ 


Sltelf..... 

Received 


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.,.-  187^, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT  OF 


WILLIAM  OILMAN  THOMPSON. 


POEMS 


OF 


GEORGE  P.  MORRIS; 


WITH 


A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


FOURTH     EDITION. 


NEW    YORK: 
CHARLES     SCRIBNER, 

124   GRAND    STREET. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860, 

By  CHARLES  SCRIBNEK, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States 
for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


SAVAGE  &  M°CREA,  STEREOTYPERS, 

13  Chambers  Street,  N.  Y. 


TO 
GEORQE     ABERNETHY, 

EX  -GO  VEEN  OK    OF    OREGON, 


ARE    AFFECTIONATELY   INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS  FRIEND, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTICE. 


THE  world-wide  popularity  of  Morris's 
Songs  and  Ballads,  which  have  become 
household  words  in  almost  every  palace 
and  cottage,  will,  the  publisher  is  confident, 
insure  for  this — the  only  complete  edition 
of  the  author's  poems — the  largest  circu 
lation. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNEE. 


C  O  N  T  JE  N  T  £ 


MEMOIR - PAGE  13 

THE  DESERTED  BRIDE 51 

THE  MAIN-TRUCK;  OB,  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE 54 

POETRY 56 

THE    CllOTON    ODE 57 

FRAGMENT   OF   AN  INDIAN   POEM 59 

LAND-IIO  !    63 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE 64 

THE  COTTAGER'S  WELCOME 66 

LAND  OF  WASHINGTON 6T 

THE  FLAG  OF  OUR  UNION 68 

LINES  AFTER  THE  MANNER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME 69 

THE   DREAM   OF   LOVE 71 

I  'M  WITH   YOU    ONCE   AGAIN 73 

OH,   WOULD    THAT   SHE    WERE   HERE 75 

THE   SWORD    AND   THE   STAFF 76 

THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  DAUGHTER 78 

THY   WILL   BE   DONE 79 

LIFE   IN   THE   WEST 80 

SONG  of  MARION'S  MEN 82 

JANET  MORE  A 83 

LISETTE 84 

MY  MOTHER'S  BIULE 85 

THE  DOG-STAR  RAGES 87 

LEGEND  OF  THE  MOHAWK 91 


8  CONTENTS. 

THE   BALL-KOOM  BELLE PAGE     92 

WE    WERE    BOYS    TOGETHER 93 

OH,   BOATMAN,    HASTE 94 

FUNERAL   HYMN 96 

O'ER    THE    MOUNTAINS 97 

WOMAN 98 

ROSABEL 99 

THY  TYRANT  SWAY 101 

A   HERO    OF   THE    REVOLUTION '. 102 

RHYME    AND    REASON!    AN    APOLOGUE 103 

STARLIGHT    RECOLLECTIONS 105 

WEARIES   MY   LOVE   OF   MY    LETTERS? 106 

-FARE    THEE    WELL,    LOVE 10T 

THOU    HAST   WOVEN    THE    SPELL 103 

BESSIE   BELL 109 

THE   DAY   IS   NOW   DAWNING,  LOVE 110 

WHEN    OTHER   FRIENDS   ARE    ROUND   THEE 112 

SILENT   GRIEF 113 

LOVE    THEE,    DEAREST? 114 

I   LOVE   THE   NIGHT 115 

THE  MINIATURE 116 

THE    RETORT 117 

LINES   ON   A  POET 118 

THE   BACCHANAL 119 

TWENTY    YEARS    AGO 122 

NATIONAL   ANTHEM 123 

I  LOVE  THEE  STILL 124 

LOOK  FROM  THY  LATTICE,  LOVE 125 

SHE  LOVED  HIM 126 

THE  SUITORS 127 

ST.  AGNES'  SHRINE 128 

WESTERN    REFRAIN.  -  - 129 

THE  PRAIRIE  ON  FIRE 131 

THE  EVERGREEN 133 

THE  MAY-QUEEN 134 

VENETIAN  SERENADE 135 

THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL 136 

THE  EXILE  TO  HIS  SISTER 139 

NEAR  THE  LAKE  WHERE  DROOPED  THE  WILLOW 140 

THE  PASTOR'S  DAUGHTER 141 

MARGARETTA 143 


CONTENTS.  9 

fllE    COLONEL PAGE  144 

THE   SWEEP'S   CAROL 146 

THE    SEASONS   OF   LOVE 14T 

MY  WOODLAND   BRIDE 148 

,  OH,  THINK   OP  ME    149 

MY  BARK    IS   OUT   UPON    THE    SEA 150 

WILL   NOBODY    MARRY   ME?. 151 

THE   STAR  OF   LOVE 152 

WELL-A-DAY. 153 

NOT    MARRIED    YET 154 

LADY  OF  ENGLAND 155 

OH,  THIS   LOVE 156 

MAEY 157 

THE    BEAM    OF   DEVOTION 153 

THE  WELCOME   AND    FAREWELL 159 

'TIS  NOW  THE    PROMISED   HOUE 160 

THE    SONGS   OF    HOME 161 

MASONIC    HYMN 162 

THE  DISMISSED 163 

LORD   OF  THE   CASTLE 165 

THE    FALLEN    BRAVE 166 

SONG  OF  THE  TROUBADOUR 167 

CHAMPIONS  OF  LIBERTY 169 

THE  HUNTER'S  CAROL 171 

WASHINGTON'S  MONUMENT 172 

THE  SISTER'S  APPEAL 173 

SONG   OF  THE  REAPERS 174 

WALTER    GAY 175 

GROUNDS  FOR  DIVORCE 176 

TEMPERANCE   SONG 178 

BOAT-SONG 179 

WILLIE    ISO 

THE    ROCK   OF  THE   PILGRIMS 182 

YEARS   AGO 183 

THE  SOLDIER'S  WELCOME  HOME 184 

THE    ORIGIN    OF   YANKEE   DOODLE 185 

LINES   ON   THE    BURIAL   OF   MRS.  MARY   L.   WARD 188 

NEW-YOKK  IN   1826 189 

THE    HERO'S    LEGACY 196 

WHAT  CAN   IT  MEAN? 197 

WHERE    HUDSON'S    WAVE 193 


10  CONTENTS. 

ATT    REVOIR PAGE  199 

TO  MY  ABSENT  DAUGHTER 200 

SONG  OP  THE  SEWING-MACHINE 202 

MY  LADY  WAITS   FOR  ME 204 

MUSIC 206 

THE  MILLIONAIRE 206 

IN    MEMORY  OF  CHARLES   H.   8ANDFORD. 211 

SEVENTY-SIX 212 

A  PARODY „..., 213 

THE  STAG-HUNT 2*6 

DELIVER  US  FROM   EVIL 216 

UNION 217 

WE  PART  FOR  EVER 218 

COME  TO  ME  IN  CHERRY  TIME 219 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  JESSIK  WILLIS 220 

THANK  GOD  FOR  PLEASANT  WEATHER 221 

THE  MASTER'S  SONG 222 

THE  MISSING  SHIP 224 

JEANNIE    MARSH 225 

LUCY 226 

EPITAPH 227 

IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  W.  FRANCIS,  JB 227 

NATURE'S  NOBLEMEN 228 

A  WALL-STREET  LYRIC 229 

KING   COTTON 230 

WORDS  ADAPTED  TO  A  SPANISH  MELODY 231 

LOVE  IN  EXILE 232 

TO  THE  EVENING  STAB 233 

WELCOME    HOME 234 

THE  SYCAMORE  SHADE 235 

UP   THE    HUDSON 236 

ONLY    THINE 237 

EPIGRAM  ON   READING  GRIM'S  ATTACK  TTPON   CLINTON 238 

ON  HEARING  THAT  MORSE  DID  NOT  INVENT  THE  TELEGRAPH  238 

ADDRESS  FOR  THE  BENEFIT  OF  WILLIAM  DUNLAP 289 

ADDRESS  FOR   THE   BENEFIT  OF  J.  SHERIDAN    KNOWLE8 241 

ADDRESS   FOR   THE   BENEFIT  OF   HENRY  PLACIDE 244 


CONTEXTS.  11 

THE  MAID  OF  SAXONY:  OR,  WHO'S  THE  TRAITOR? 249 

HO  !  HANS  !  —  WHY,  HANS  ! 251 

REJOICE  !  REJOICE  !  WE'RE  SAFE  AND  SOUND 252 

THE  LIFE   FOR  ME  18  A  SOLDIER'S   LIFE 259 

CONFUSION  !  AGAIN  REJECTED  ! 263 

WHEN  I  BEHOLD  THAT  LOWERING  BROW 265 

'TIS  A  SOLDIER'S  RIGID  DUTY 269 

THE  SPRING-TIME   OF  LOVE  IS   BOTH    HAPPY   AND   GAY 271 

FROM  MY  FATE  THERE  'S    NO   RETREATING 2TS 

LADS   AND    LASSES    TRIP    AWAY 279 

ALL  HAIL    THE    KING  ! 288 

HOME. 290 

SKY,   STREAM,   MOORLAND,    AND    MOUNTAIN 301 

DARED   THESE  LIPS   MY   SAD  STORY   IMPART 203 

FIERY  MARS,  THY    VOTARY    HEAR 310 

AH!    LOVE   IS    NOT   A   GARDEN-FLOWER 311 

THE   KING,   THE    PRINCES   OF   THE   COURT 313 

VICTORIA  !  VICTORIA  ! 815 

THIS  GL(TOMY  CELL  IS  MY  ABODE  AT  LAST 321 

HARK!   'TIS  THE  DEEP-TONED  MIDNIGHT  BELL 323 

ONCE,  MILD  AND  GENTLE  WAS  MY  HEART 327 

THE  GENTLE  BIRD    ON   YONDER  SPRAY 330 

THAT    LAW'S  THE  PERFECTION   OF  REASON 339 

WITH   MERCY   LET  JUSTICE 341 

WHAT  OUTRAGE   MORE  ?  — AT  WHOSE   COMMAND 343 

THE  JAVELIN  FROM  AN  UNSEEN  HAND 351 

REJOICE  !  OUR  LOYAL  HEARTS  WE  BRING 352 

OUR  HEARTS  ARE  BOUNDING  WITH  DELIGHT 356 

NOTES 357 

THE  DESERTED  BRIDE 857 

THE    CROTON    ODE 357 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE ,  .  357 

THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  DAUGHTER 359 

SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN 860 

JANET    MCREA 360 

THE  DOG-STAR    RAGES 862 

THE   PRAIRIE    ON   FIRE 363 

THE  SWEEP'S  CAROL 363 

THE  FALLEN  BRAVE  OF  MEXICO 863 

THE  CHAMPIONS  OF  LIBERTY 363 


12  CONTENTS. 

THE   ROCK   OP  THE  PILGRIMS 363 

THE  SOLDIER'S  WELCOME  HOME 364 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  YANKEE  DOODLE 364 

NEW-YORK    IN    1826 364 

THE  MAID  OF  SAXONY 366 


MEMOIR  OF  GEORGE  P,  MORRIS, 

BY    HORACE    BINNEY   WALLACE. 

Bless  thou  tliy  lot;  thy  simple  strains  have  led 
The  high-born  muse  to  be  the  poor  man's  guest, 

And  wafted  on  the  wings  of  song,  have  sped 

Their  way  to  many  a  rude,  unlettered  breast.  BERANOEB. 

Morris  has  hung  the  most  beautiful  thoughts  in  the  world  upon  hinges  of 
honey ;  and  his  songs  are  destined  to  roll  over  bright  lips  enough  to  form  a 
sunset.  His  sentiments  are  simple,  honest,  truthful,  and  familiar;  his  language 
is  pure  and  eminently  musical,  and  he  is  prodigally  full  of  the  poetry  of  every-day 
feeling.  WILLIS. 

THE  distinction  with  which  the  name  of  Gen 
eral  MORRIS  is  now  associated  in  a  permanent 
connection  with  what  is  least  factitious  or  fugi 
tive  in  American  Art,  is  admitted  and  known  ; 
but  the  class  of  young  men  of  letters  in  this 
country,  at  present,  can  hardly  appreciate  the 
extent  to  which  they,  and  the  profession  to  which 
they  belong,  are  indebted  to  his  animated  exer 
tions,  his  varied  talents,  his  admirable  resources 
of  temper,  during  a  period  of  twenty  years,  and 
at  a  time  when  the  character  of  American  liter 
ature,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  was  yet  to  be 
formed.  The  first  great  service  which  the  liter 
ary  taste  of  this  country  received,  was  rendered 
by  Dennie  ;  a  remarkable  man  ;  qualified  by  na- 


14  MEMOIR   OF 

ture  and  attainments  to  be  a  leader  in  new  cir 
cumstances  ;  fit  to  take  part  in  the  formation  of 
a  national  literature ;  as  a  vindicator  of  inde 
pendence  in  thought,  able  to  establish  freedom 
without  disturbing  the  obligations  of  law  ;  as  a 
conservative  in  taste,  skilful  to  keep  the  tone 
of  the  great  models  with  which  his  studies  were 
familiar,  without  copying  their  style  ;  by  both 
capacities  successful  in  developing  the  one,  un 
changeable  spirit  of  Art,  under  a  new  form  and 
with  new  effects.  In  this  office  of  field-marshal 
of  our  native  forces,  General  Morris  succeeded 
him  under  increased  advantages,  in  some  respect 
with  higher  powers,  in  a  different,  and  certainly 
a  vastly  more  extended  sphere  of  influence.  The 
manifold  and  lasting  benefits  which,  as  editor  of 
"  The  Mirror,"  General  Morris  conferred  on  art 
and  artists  of  every  kind,  by  his  tact,  his  liberality, 
the  superiority  of  his  judgment,  and  the  vigor  of 
his  abilities ;  by  the  perseverance  and  address  with 
which  he  disciplined  a  corps  of  youthful  writers, 
in  the  presence  of  a  constant  and  heavy  fire  from 
the  batteries  of  foreign  criticism  ;  by  the  rare 
combination,  so  valuable  in  dealing  with  the  nu 
merous  aspirants  in  authorship  with  whom  his 
position  brought  him  in  contact ;  of  a  quick,  true 
eye  to  discern  in  the  modesty  of  some  nameless 
manuscript  the  future  promises  of  a  power  hard- 


GEORGE   P.    MORRIS.  15 

ly  yet  conscious  of  itself ;  a  discretion  to  guide  by 
sound  advice,  and  a  generosity  to  aid  with  the 
most  important  kind  of  assistance  ;  the  firm  and 
open  temper  which  his  example  tended  to  inspire 
into  the  relations  of  literary  man  with  one  an 
other  throughout  the  land  ;  and  more  than  all, 
perhaps,  by  the  harmony  and  union,  of  such  in 
appreciable  value,  especially  in  the  beginning  of 
national  effort,  between  the  several  sister  arts  of 
writing,  music,  painting,  and  dramatic  exhibi 
tion,  which  the  singular  variety  and  discoursive- 
ness  of  his  intellectual  sympathies  led  him  con 
stantly  to  maintain  and  vindicate  ;  these,  in  the 
multiplicity  of  their  operation,  and  the  full  power 
of  their  joint  effect,  can  be  perfectly  understood 
only  by  those  who  possessed  a  contemporaneous 
knowledge  of  the  circumstances,  and  who,  re 
membering  the  state  of  things  at  the  commence 
ment  of  the  period  alluded  to,  and  observing 
what  existed  at  the  end  of  it,  are  able  to  look 
back  over  the  whole  interval,  and  see  to  what 
influences  and  what  persons  the  extraordinary 
change  which  has  taken  place,  is  to  be  referred. 
If,  at  this  moment,  the  literary  genius  of  Amer 
ica,  renewed  in  youth,  and  quivering  like  the 
eagle's  wings  with  excess  of  vigor,  seems  about 
to  make  a  new  flight,  from  a  higher  vantage- 
ground,  into  loftier  depths  of  airy  distance,  the 


16  MEMOIR   OF 

capacity  to  take  that  flight  must,  to  a  great 
degree,  be  ascribed  to  those  two  persons  whom 
we  have  named  ;  without  whose  services  the 
brighter  era  which  appears  now  to  be  dawning, 
might  yet  be  distant  and  doubtful. 

Besides  these  particulars  of  past  effort,  which 
ought  to  make  his  countrymen  love  the  reputa 
tion  of  the  subject  of  this  notice,  we  regret  that 
our  limits  forbid  us  to  speak  at  large  of  those 
more  intimate  qualities  of  personal  value,  which, 
in  our  judgment,  form  the  genuine  lustre  of  one 
who,  admirable  for  other  attainments,  is  to  be 
imitated  in  these. 

To  us  it  is  an  instinctive  feeling  that  a  wrong 
is  done  to  the  proper  grandeur  of  our  complex 
nature  —  that  a  violence  is  offered  to  the  higher 
consciousness  of  our  immortal  being — whenever 
an  intellectual  quality  is  extolled  to  the  neglect 
of  a  moral  one.  Moral  excellence  is  the  most 
real  genius  ;  and  a  temper  to  cope  and  calmly 
baffle  the  multitudinous  assaults  of  the  spiritual 
enmity  of  active  life,  is  a  talent  which  outshines 
all  praise  of  mental  endowments.  Unhappily, 
the  biography  of  literary  creators  affords  few 
occasions  in  which  a  feeling  of  this  kind  can  be 
indulged  and  gratified  :  that  sensibility  of  men 
tal  apprehensions  which  is  the  fame  of  the 
author,  is  usually  attended  by  a  susceptibility  of 


GEORGE   P.    MORRIS.  It 

passionate  impression  which  is  the  fate  of  the 
man  ;  and  earth  and  sense  delight  to  wreak  their 
destructive  vengeances  upon  the  spiritual  nature 
of  him,  of  whose  intellectual  being  they  are  the 
slaves  and  the  sport.  In  the  present  instance, 
we  are  concerned  with  a  character  —  totus,  teres, 
atque  rotundus ;  which  may  be  looked  upon, 
from  every  side,  with  an  equal  satisfaction. 
Search  the  wide  world  over,  and  you  shall  not 
find  among  the  literary  men  of  any  nation,  one 
on  whom  the  dignity  of  a  free  and  manly  spirit 
sits  with  a  grace  more  native  and  familiar — 
whose  spontaneous  sentiments  have  a  truer  tone 
of  nobleness — the  course  of  whose  usual  feel 
ings  is  more  expanded  and  honorable — whose 
acts,  whether  common  and  daily,  or  deliberate 
and  much-considered,  are  wont  at  all  times  to  be 
more  beautifully  impressed  with  those  marks  of 
sincerity*  of  modesty,  and  of  justice,  which  form 
the  very  seal  of  worth  in  conduct.  Those  jeal 
ousies,  and  littlenesses,  and  envyings,  which  prey 
upon  the  spirits  of  many  men,  as  the  vulture 
on  the  heart  of  the  chained  Prometheus  —  and 
whose  fierce  besetment  they  who  will  be  magnan 
imous,  have  to  fight  off,  as  one  drives  away  the 
eagles  from  their  prey,  with  voice  and  gestures 
—  seem  never  to  assail  him.  It  is  the  happiness 
of  his  nature  to  have  that  only  absolute  deliver- 
2 


18  MEMOIR   OF 

ance  from  evil  which  is  implied  in  being  rendered 
insensible  to  temptation.  While  the  duty  which 
is  laid  upon  us,  in  this  paper,  mainly  is  to  open 
and  set  forth  his  poetic  praises  and  claim  the 
laurel  for  his  literary  merits  ;  when  the  crown 
of  song  is  to  be  conferred  upon  him,  we  shall  in 
terpose  to  beg  that  the  chaplet  may  be  accom 
panied  by  some  mark,  or  some  inscription  which 
shall  declare, 

"  2t|)te  is  tfje  retoarn  of  moral  excellence." 

For  the  success  of  our  special  purpose,  in  this 
notice,  which  is  to  consider  and  make  apparent  the 
specific  character  which  belongs  to  General  Mor 
ris  as  a  literary  artist  and  a  poetic  creator,  to 
explain  his  claims  to  that  title  which  the  com 
mon  voice  of  the  country  has  given  to  him  —  of 
THE  SONG- WRITER  OF  AMERICA  —  it  would  have 
probably  been  more  judicious  had  we  kept  out  of 
view  the  matters  of  which  we  have  just  spoken. 
It  is  recorded  of  a  Grecian  painter,  that  having 
completed  the  picture  of  a  sleeping  nymph,  he 
added  on  the  foreground  the  figure  of  a  satyr 
gazing  in  amazement  upon  her  beauty  ;  but  find 
ing  that  the  secondary  form  attracted  universal 
praise,  he  erased  it  as  diverting  applause  from 
that  which  he  desired  to  have  regarded  as  the 
principal  monument  of  his  skill.  There  is  in  this 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  19 

anecdote  a  double  wisdom  ;  the  world  is  as  little 
willing  to  yield  to  a  twofold  superiority  as  it  is 
able  to  appreciate  two  distinct  objects  at  once. 

In  a  review  of  literary  reputations,  perhaps 
nothing  is  fitted  to  raise  more  surprise  than  the 
obvious  inequality  in  the  extent  and  greatness  of 
the  labors  to  which  an  equal  reward  of  fame  has 
been  allotted.  The  abounding  energy  and  pictu 
resque  variety  of  Homer  are  illustrated  in  eight- 
and-forty  books  :  the  remains  of  Sappho  might 
be  written  on  the  surface  of  a  leaf  of  the  laurus 
nobilis.  Yet  if  the  one  expands  before  us  with 
the  magnificent  extent,  the  diversified  surface, 
the  endless  decorations  of  the  earth  itself,  the 
other  hangs  on  high,  like  a  lone,  clear  star  — 
small  but  intense — flashing  upon  us  through  the 
night  of  ages,  invested  with  circumstances  of  di 
vinity  not  less  unquestionable  than  those  which 
attend  the  venerable  majesty  of  the  Ancient  of 
Song.  The  rich  and  roseate  light  that  shines 
around  the  name  of  Mimnermus,  is  shed  from 
some  dozen  or  twenty  lines  :  the  immortality  of 
Tyrtseus  rests  upon  a  stanza  or  two,  which  have 
floated  to  us  with  their  precious  freight,  over  the 
sea  of  centuries,  and  will  float  on,  unsubmergi- 
ble  by  all  the  waves  of  Time.  The  soul  of  Si- 
monides  lives  to  us  in  a  single  couplet ;  but 
that  is  the  very  stuff  of  Eternity,  which  neither 


20  MEMOIR   OF 

fire  will  assoil,  nor  tempest  peril,  nor  the  wrath 
of  years  impair.  The  Infinite  has  no  degrees ; 
wherever  the  world  sees  in  any  human  being 
the  fire  of  the  Everlasting,  it  bows  with  equal 
awe,  whether  that  fire  is  displayed  by  only  an 
occasional  flash,  or  by  a  prolonged  and  dif 
fusive  blaze.  There  is  a  certain  tone  which, 
hear  it  when  we  may,  and  where  we  may,  we 
know  to  be  the  accents  of  the  gods  :  and 
whether  its  quality  be  shown  in  a  single  utter 
ance,  or  its  volume  displayed  in  a  thousand  bursts 
of  music,  we  surround  the  band  of  spirits  whom 
we  there  detect  in  their  mortal  disguise,  with 
equal  ceremonies  of  respect  and  worship,  hailing 
them  alike  as  seraphs  of  a  brighter  sphere  — 
sons  of  the  morning.  This  is  natural,  and  it  is 
reasonable.  Genius  is  not  a  degree  of  other 
qualities,  nor  is  it  a  particular  way  or  extent  of 
displaying  such  qualities  ;  it  is  a  faculty  by  it 
self  ;  it  is  a  manner,  of  which  we  may  judge  with 
the  same  certainty  from  one  exhibition,  as  from 
many.  The  praise  of  a  poet,  therefore,  is  to  be 
determined  not  by  the  nature  of  the  work  which 
he  undertakes,  but  by  the  kind  of  mastery  which 
he  shows  ;  not  by  the  breadth  of  surface  over 
which  he  toils,  but  by  the  perfectness  of  the  re 
sult  which  he  attains.  Mr.  Wordsworth  has 
vindicated  the  capacity  of  the  sonnet  to  be  a 


GEORGE  p.  :,!  :;PJS.  21 

casket  of  the  richest  gems  of  fame.  We  have 
no  doubt  that  the  song  may  give  evidence  of  a 
genius  which  shall  deserve  to  be  ranked  with  the 
constructor  of  an  epic.  "  Scorn  not  the  Song." 
We  would  go  so  far,  indeed,  as  to  say  that  suc 
cess  in  the  song  imports,  necessarily,  a  more  in 
born  and  genuine  gift  of  poeftc  conception,  than 
the  same  proportion  of  success  in  other  less  sim 
ple  modes  of  art.  There  are  some  sorts  of  com 
position  which  may  be  wrought  out  of  eager 
feeling  and  the  foam  of  excited  passions  ;  and 
which  are  therefore  to  a  large  extent  within  the 
reach  of  earnest  sensibilities  and  an  ambitious 
will;  others  are  the  spontaneous  outflow  of  the 
heart,  to  whose  perfection,  turbulance  and  effort 
are  fatal.  Of  the  latter  kind  is  the  song.  While 
the  ode  allows  of  exertion  and  strain,  what  is 
done  in  it  must  be  accomplished  by  native  and 
inherent  strength. 

Speaking  with  that  confidence  which  may  not 
improperly  be  assumed  by  one  who,  having  looked 
with  some  care  at  the  foundations  of  the  opinion 
which  he  expresses,  supposes  himself  able,  if 
called  upon  by  denial,  to  furnish  such  demonstra 
tion  of  its  truth  as  the  nature  of  the  matter  al 
lows  of,  we  say  that,  in  our  judgment,  there  is 
no  professed  writer  of  songs,  in  this  day,  who  has 
conceived  the  true  character  of  this  delicate  and 


22  •  MEMOIR    OF 

peculiar  creation  of  art,  with  greater  precision 
and  justness  than  Mr.  Morris,  or  been  more  felic 
itous  than  he  in  dealing  with  the  subtle  and  mul 
tiform  difficulties  that  beset  its  execution.  It  is 
well  understood  by  those  whose  thoughts  are  used 
to  be  conversant  with  the  suggestions  of  a  deeper 
analysis  than  belongs  to  popular  criticism,  that 
the  forms  of  literary  art  are  not  indefinite  in  num 
ber,  variable  in  their  characteristics,  or  deter 
mined  by  the  casual  taste  or  arbitrary  will  of 
authors:  they  exist  in  nature;  they  are  depend 
ent  upon  those  fixed  laws  of  intellectual  being, 
of  spiritual  affection,  and  moral  choice,  which 
constitute  the  rationality  of  man.  And  the  act 
ual,  positive  merit  of  a  poetical  production  — 
that  real  merit,  which  consists  in  native  vitality, 
in  inherent  capacity  to  live  —  does  not  lie  in  the 
glitter  or  costliness  of  the  decorations  with  which 
it  is  invested — nor  in  the  force  with  which  it  is 
made  to  spring  from  the  mind  of  its  creator  into 
the  minds  of  others — nor  yet  in  the  scale  of 
magnitude  upon  which  the  ideas  belonging  to 
the  subject  are  illustrated  in  the  work ;  but  rath 
er,  as  we  suppose,  obviously,  and  in  all  cases,  up 
on  the  integrity  and  truth  with  which  the  partic 
ular  form  that  has  been  contemplated  by  the 
artist,  is  brought  out,  and  the  distinctness  with 
which  that  one  specific  impression  which  is  ap- 


GEORGE   P.    MORRIS.  23 

propriate  to  it,  is  attained.  This  is  the  kind  of 
excellence  which  we  ascribe  to  Mr.  Morris;  an 
excellence  of  a  lofty  order;  genuine,  sincere,  and 
incapable  of  question  ;  more  valuable  in  this 
class  of  composition  than  in  any  other,  because 
both  more  important  and  more  difficult.  For 
the  song  appears  to  us  to  possess  a  definiteness 
peculiarly  jealous  and  exclusive  ;  to  be  less  flex 
ible  in  character  and  to  permit  less  variety  of 
tone  than  most  other  classes  of  composition.  If 
a  man  shall  say,  "  I  will  put  more  force  into  my 
song  than  your  model  allows,  I  will  charge  it 
with  greater  variety  of  impressions,"  it  is  well ;  if 
he  is  skilful,  he  may  make  something  that  is  very 
valuable.  But  in  so  far  as  his  work  is  more  than 
a  song,  it  is  not  a  song.  In  all  works  of  Art  — 
wherever  form  is  concerned  —  excess  is  error. 

The  just  notion  and  office  of  the  modern  song, 
as  we  think  of  it,  is  to  be  the  embodiment  and 
expression,  in  beauty,  of  some  one  of  those  senti 
ments  or  thoughts,  gay,  moral,  pensive,  joyous, 
or  melancholy,  which  are  as  natural  and  appro 
priate,  in  particular  circumstances,  or  to  certain 
occasions,  as  the  odor  to  the  flower  ;  rising  at 
such  seasons,  into  the  minds  of  all  classes  of  per 
sons,  instinctive  and  unbidden,  yet  in  obedience 
to  some  law  of  association  which  it  is  the  gift  of 
the  poet  to  apprehend.  Its  graceful  purpose  is  to 


24  MEMOIR   OF 

exhibit  an  incident  in  the  substance  of  an  emo 
tion,  to  communicate  wisdom  in  the  form  of  sen 
timent;  it  is  the  refracted  gleam  of  some  wander 
ing  ray  from  the  fair  orb  of  moral  truth,  which, 
glancing  against  some  occurrence  in  common  life, 
is  surprised  into  a  smile  of  quick-darting,  many 
colored  beauty ;  it  is  the  airy  ripple  that  is  thrown 
up  when  the  current  of  feeling  in  human  hearts 
accidentally  encounters  the  current  of  thought, 
and  bubbles  forth  with  a  gentle  fret  of  sparkling 
foam.  Self-evolved,  almost,  and  obedient  in  its 
development  and  shaping  to  some  inward  spirit 
of  beauty  which  appears  to  possess  and  control 
its  course,  it  might  almost  seem  that,  in  the  out 
going  loveliness  of  such  productions,  sentiment, 
made  substantial  in  language,  floated  abroad  in 
natural  self-delivery;  as  that  heat  which  is  not 
yet  flame,  gives  itself  forth  in  blue  wreaths  of 
vaporous  grace,  which  unfold  their  delicateness 
for  a  moment  upon  the  tranquil  air,  and  then 
vanish  away.  It  is  not  an  artificial  structure 
built  up  by  intellect  after  a  model  foreshaped  by 
fancy,  or  foreshadowed  by  the  instincts  of  the 
passions ;  it  is  a  simple  emotion,  crystalled  into 
beauty  by  passing  for  a  moment  through  the 
cooler  air  of  the  mind  ;  it  is  merely  an  effluence 
of  creative  vigor ;  a  graceful  feeling  thickened 
into  words.  Its  proper  dwelling  is  in  the  at- 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  25 

mospliere  of  the  sentiments,  not  the  passions  ;  it 
will  not,  indeed,  repel  the  sympathy  of  deeper 
feelings,  but  knows  them  rather  under  the  form 
of  the  flower  that  floats  upon  the  surface  of  med 
itation,  than  of  the  deeper  root  that  lies  beneath 
its  stream.  And  this  is  the  grievous  fault  of 
nearly  all  Lord  Byron's  melodies;  that  he  pierces 
too  profoundly,  and  passes  below  the  region  of 
grace,  charging  his  lyre  with  far  more  vehe 
mence  of  passion  than  its  slight  strings  are  meant 
to  bear.  The  beauty  which  belongs  to  this  pro 
duction,  should  be  in  the  form  of  the  thought 
rather  than  the  fashion  of  the  setting:  that  gen 
uineness  and  simplicity  of  character  which  con 
stitute  almost  its  essence,  are  destroyed  by  any 
appearance  of  the  cold  artifices  of  construction, 
palpable  springs  set  for  our  admiration,  where 
by  the  beginning  is  obviously  arranged  in  refer 
ence  to  a  particular  ending.  This  is  the  short- 
reaching  power  of  Moore  —  guilty,  by  design,  of 
that  departure  from  simplicity,  by  which  he  fas 
cinated  one  generation  at"  the  expense  of  being 
forgotten  by  another.  The  song,  while  it  is  gen 
eral  in  its  impression,  should  be  particular  in  its 
occasion;  not  an  abstraction  of  the  mind,  but  a 
definite  feeling,  special  to  some  certain  set  of  cir 
cumstances.  Rising  from  out  the  surface  of  daily 
experience,  like  the  watery  issuings  of  a  fountain, 


26  MEMOIR   OF 

it  throws  itself  upward  for  a  moment,  then  de 
scends  in  a  soft,  glittering  shower  to  the  level 
whence  it  rose.  Herein  resides  the  chief  defect 
of  Bayly 's  songs;  that  they  are  too  general  and 
vague  —  a  species  of  pattern  songs  —  being  em 
bodiments  of  some  general  feeling,  or  reflection, 
but  lacking  that  sufficient  reference  to  some  sea 
son  or  occurrence  which  would  justify  their  ap 
pearing,  and  take  away  from  them  the  aspect  of 
pretension  and  display. 

The  only  satisfactory  method  of  criticism  is  by 
means  of  clinical  lectures ;  and  we  feel  regret 
that  our  limits  do  not  suffer  us  —  to  any  great 
degree  —  to  illustrate  what  we  deem  the  vigor 
ous  simplicity,  and  genuine  grace  of  Mr.  Morris, 
by  that  mode  of  exposition.  We  must  refer  to 
a  few  cases,  however,  to  show  what  we  have  been 
meaning  in  the  remarks  which  we  made  above, 
upon  the  proper  character  of  the  song.  The 
ballad  of  "  Woodman,  spare  that  tree" — one  of 
those  accidents  of  genius  which,  however,  never 
happen  but  to  consummate  artists  —  is  so  familiar 
to  every  mind  and  heart,  as  to  resent  citation. 
Take,  then,  "My  Mother's  Bible."  We  know 
of  no  similar  production  in  a  truer  taste,  in  a 
purer  style,  or  more  distinctly  marked  with  the 
character  of  a  good  school  of  composition.  Or 
take  "  We  were  boys  together."  In  manly  pa- 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  27 

thos,  in  tenderness  and  truth,  where  shall  it  be 
excelled?  " The  Miniature"  possesses  the  capti 
vating  elegance  of  Yoiture.  "Where  Hudson's 
Wave"  is  a  glorious  burst  of  poetry,  modulated 
into  refinement  by  the  hand  of  a  master.  Where 
will  you  find  a  nautical  song,  seemingly  more 
spontaneous  in  its  genial  outbreak,  really  more 
careful  in  its  construction,  than  "Land-ho!" 
How  full  of  the  joyous  madness  of  absolute  in 
dependence,  yet  made  harmonious  by  instinctive 
grace,  is  "  Life  in  the  West !"  That  the  same 
heart  whose  wild  pulse  is  thrilled  by  the  adven 
turous  interests  of  the  huntsman  and  the  wan 
derer,  can  beat  in  unison  with  the  gentlest  truth 
of  deep  devotion,  is  shown  in  "  When  other 
Friends  are  around  Thee."  "I  love  the  Night" 
has  the  voluptuous  elegance  of  the  Spanish  mod 
els.  Were  we  to  meet  the  lines  "Oh,  think  of 
me !"  in  an  anthology,  we  should  suppose  they 
were  Suckling's  —  so  admirably  is  the  tone  of 
feeling  kept  down  to  the  limit  of  probable  sin 
cerity —  which  is  a  characteristic  that  the  cava 
lier  style  of  courting  never  loses.  "  The  Star  of 
Love"  might  stand  as  a  selected  specimen  of  all 
that  is  most  exquisite  in  the  songs  of  the  Trou- 
veurs.  "The  Seasons  of  Love" is  a  charming  effu 
sion  of  gay,  yet  thoughtful  sentiment.  The  song, 
"  I  never  have  been  false  to  thee,"  is,  of  itself,  sum*- 


28  MEMOIR   OF 

cient  to  establish  General  Morris's  fame  as  a 
great  poet — as  a  potens  magister  affeduum — and 
as  a  literary  creator  of  a  high  order.  It  is  a 
thoroughly  fresh  and  affective  poem  on  a  subject 
as  hackneyed  as  the  highway ;  it  is  as  deep 
as  truth  itself,  yet  light  as  the  movement  of  a 
dance.  We  had  almost  forgotten,  what  the 
world  will  never  forget,  the  matchless  softness 
and  transparent  delicacy  of  "Near  the  Lake." 
Those  lines,  of  themselves,  unconsciously,  court 
"  the  soft  promoter  of  the  poet's  strain,"  and  al 
most  seem  about  to  break  into  music.  It  is 
agreeable  to  find  that,  instead  of  being  seduced 
into  a  false  style  by  the  excessive  popularity 
which  many  of  his  songs  have  acquired,  General 
Morris's  later  efforts  are  in  a  vein  even  more  truly 
classic  than  his  earlier  ones,  and  show  a  decided 
advance,  both  in  power  and  ease.  "  The  Rock 
of  the  Pilgrims,"  and  the  "  Indian  Songs,"  are  a 
very  clear  evidence  of  this.  We  would  willingly 
go  on  with  our  references,  as  there  are  several 
which  have  equal  claims  with  these  upon  our 
notice,  but  —  daudite  jam  TWOS. 

Such  are  some  of  the  compositions,  original 
in  style,  natural  in  spirit,  beautiful  with  the 
charm  of  almost  faultless  execution,  which  may 
challenge  for  their  author  the  title  of  the  lau- 
reato  of  America. . . . 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  29 

A  writer  in  Ilowitfs  and  the  People's  Journal 
furnishes  the  following  sketch  of  General  Morris 
and  his  Songs,  which  was  copied  and  endorsed  by 
the  late  Dr.  Rufus  W.  Griswold,  in  his  Inter* 
national  Magazine: — 

"  Before  us  lies  a  heap  of  songs  and  ballads, 
the  production  of  the  rich  fancy  and  warm  heart 
of  George  P.  Morris.  Not  many  weeks  since,  at 
a  public  meeting  in  London,  a  gentleman  claimed 
to  be  heard  speak  on  the  ground  of  his  connec 
tion  with  the  public  press  from  the  time  when  he 
was  seven  years  of  age.  We  will  not  undertake 
to  say  that  General  Morris  ran  his  juvenile 
fingers  over  the  chords  of  the  lyre  at  so  very 
early  a  period  ;  but  it  is  certain  he  tried  his 
hand  at  writing  for  the  newspapers  when  he  was 
yet  but  a  mere  boy.  While  in  his  teens,  he  was 
a  constant  contributor  to  various  periodicals. 
Many  of  his  articles  attracted  notice.  He  be 
gan  to  acquire  a  literary  reputation  ;  and  at 
length,  in  1823,  being  then  in  his  twentieth 
year,  he  became  editor  of  the  New  York  Mir 
ror.  This  responsible  post  he  continued  to  hold 
until  the  termination  of  that  paper's  existence, 
in  1834. 

11  Morris  accomplished  an  infinity  of  good  in 
the  twenty  years  during  which  he  wielded  the 
editorial  pen.  Perhaps  no  other  man  in  the 


30  MEMOIR    OF 

United  States  was  so  well  qualified  for  the  noble 
task  lie  set  himself  at  the  outset  of  his  career 
as  editor.  American  literature  was  in  its  in 
fancy,  and  subject  to  all  the  weaknesses  of  that 
period.  Morris  resolved  to  do  his  utmost  toward 
forming  a  character  for  it,  and  looked  abroad 
anxiously  for  such  as  could  aid  him  in  his  en 
deavor.  The  Mirror  will  ever  be  fondly  re 
membered  by  the  American  literary  man,  for  it 
has  been  the  cradle  of  American  genius. 

"  To  him  a  writer  in  Graham? }s  Magazine,  at 
tributes  the  present  flourishing  condition  and 
bright  prospects  of  transatlantic  literature.  He 
evidently  possesses  a  personal  knowledge  of  Gen 
eral  Morris,  and  discourses  right  eloquently  in  his 
praise.  Nor  do  we  think  that  he  overrates  his 
merits  in  the  least.  From  other  sources  we  have 
ourselves  learned  much  of  the  genial  nature  of 
George  P.  Morris,  and  his  gigantic  labors  as  a 
literary  pioneer.  Considering  its  juvenility  as  a 
nation,  republican  America,  indeed,  has  been 
amazingly  prolific' of  good  writers.  The  large 
share  Morris  has  had  in  awakening  the  latent 
talent  of  his  countrymen,  must  ever  be  to  him  a 
high  source  of  gratulation.  And  then,  as  an 
original  writer,  he  has  won  for  himself  a  high 
place  among  literary  Americans  ;  he  is,  in  fact, 
known  throughout  the  States  as  '  The  Song- 


GEORGE   P.    MORRIS.  31 

writer  of  America  ;'  and  we  have  the  authority 
of  Willis  for  stating  that  'ninety-nine  people  out 
of  a  hundred  —  take  them  as  they  come  in  the 
census  —  would  find  more  to  admire  in  Morris's 
Songs  than  in  the  writings  of  any  other  Ameri 
can  poet/  Willis  also  tells  us,  as  a  proof  of  the 
General's  popularity  with  those  shrewd  dollar- 
loving  men,  the  publishers,  that  'he  can,  at  any 
time,  obtain  fifty  dollars  for  a  song  unread,  when 
the  whole  remainder  of  the  American  Parnassus 
could  not  sell  one  to  the  same  buyer  for  a  single 
shilling !'  He  is  the  best-known  poet  of  the 
country  by  acclamation  —  not  by  criticism. 

"Morris  seems  to  have  had  juster  notions  of 
what  was  required  in  a  song  than  many  who 
have  achieved  celebrity  as  song-writers  in  Eng 
land.  '  The  just  office  and  notion  of  the  mo 
dern  song'  has  been  defined  to  be,  the  embodi 
ment  and  expression  in  beauty  of  some  thought 
or  sentiment  —  gay,  pensive,  moral,  or  senti 
mental —  which  is  as  natural  and  appropriate  in 
certain  circumstances  as  the  odor  to  the  flower. 
Its  graceful  purpose  is  to  exhibit  an  incident  in 
the  substance  of  an  emotion,  to  communicate 
wisdom  in  the  form  of  sentiment.  A  song 
should  be  the  embodiment  of  some  general  feel 
ing,  and  have  reference  to  some  season  or  occur 
rence. 


32  MEMOIR   OF 

"  It  is  not  a  very  difficult  thing  to  make  words 
rhyme  ;  some  of  the  most  unimaginative  intel 
lects  we  ever  knew  could  do  so  with  surprising 
facility.  It  is  rare  to  find  a  sentimental  miss  or 
a  lackadaisical  master  who  cannot  accomplish 
this  intellectual  feat,  with  the  help  of  Walker's 
Rhyming  Dictionary.  As  for  love,  why,  every 
one  writes  about  it  now-a-days.  There  is  such 
an  abhorrence  of  the  simple  Saxon  —  such  an  out 
rageous  running  after  outlandish  phraseology  — 
that  we  wonder  folks  are  satisfied  with  this  plain 
term. 

"  We  wonder  they  do  not  seek  for  an  equiva 
lent  in  high  Dutch  or  in  low  Dutch,  in  Hunga 
rian  or  in  Hindostanee.  We  wish  they  would, 
with  all  our  heart  and  soul.  We  have  no  objec 
tion,  provided  the  heart  be  touched,  that  a  head 
should  produce  a  little  of  the  stuff  called  'non 
sense  verses' — that  this  article  should  be  com 
mitted  to  scented  note-paper,  and  carefully  sealed 
up  with  skewered  hearts  of  amazing  corpulence. 
God  forbid  that  we  should  be  thought  guilty  of 
a  sneer  at  real  affection  !  —  far  from  it  ;  such 
ever  commands  our  reverence.  But  we  do  not 
find  it  in  the  noisy  tribe  of  goslings  green  who 
would  fain  be  thought  of  the  nightingale  species. 
Did  the  reader  ever  contemplate  a  child  engaged 
in  the  interesting  operation  of  sucking  a  lolli- 


GEORGE   P.    MORRIS.  33 

pop  ? — we  assure  him  that  that  act  was  dictated 
by  quite  as  much  of  true  sentiment  as  puts  in 
action  the  fingers  and  wits  of  the  generality  of 
our  young  amatory  poetasters. 

"  We  know  of  none  who  have  written  more 
charmingly  of  love  than  George  P.  Morris. 
Would  to  Apollo  that  our  rhymsters  would  con 
descend  to  read  carefully  his  poetical  effusions  ! 
But  they  contain  no  straining  after  effect —  no 
extravagant  metaphors  —  no  drivelling  conceits  ; 
and  so  there  is  little  fear  of  their  being  taken  as 
models  by  those  gentlemen.  Let  the  reader 
mark  the  surprising  excellence  of  the  love  songs  ; 
their  perfect  naturalness  ;  the  quiet  beauty  of 
the  similes  ;  the  fine  blending  of  graceful  thought 
and  tender  feeling  which  characterize  them. 
Morris  is,  indeed,  the  poet  of  home  joys.  None 
have  described  more  eloquently  the  beauty  and 
dignity  of  true  affection  —  of  passion  based  upon 
esteem  ;  and  his  fame  is  certain  to  endure  while 
the  Anglo-Saxon  woman  has  a  hearthstone  over 
which  to  repeat  her  most  cherished  household 
words. 

"  Seldom  have  the  benign  effects  of  the  pas 
sion  been  more  felicitously  painted  than  in  the 
1  Seasons  of  Love7  ;  and  what  simple  tenderness 
is  contained  in  the  ballad  of  '  We  were  boys  to 
gether/  Every  word  in  that  beautiful  melody 
3 


34  MEMOIR    OF 

comes  home  to  the  heart  of  him  whose  early 
days  have  been  happy.  God  help  those  in 
whom  this  poem  awakens  no  fond  remembrances  ! 
—  those  whose  memories  it  does  not  get  wandering 
up  the  stream  of  life,  toward  its  source  ;  behold 
ing  at  every  step  the  sun  smiling  more  brightly, 
the  heavens  assuming  a  deeper  hue,  the  grass  a 
fresher  green,  and  the  flowers  a  sweeter  perfume. 
How  wondrous  are  not  its  effects  upon  our 
selves  !  The  wrinkles  have  disappeared  from 
our  brow,  and  the  years  from  our  shoulder,  and 
the  marks  of  the  branding-iron  of  experience  from 
our  heart  ;  and  again  we  are  a  careless  child, 
gathering  primroses,  and  chasing  butterflies,  and 
drinking  spring-water  from  out  the  hollow  of  our 
hands.  Around  us  are  the  hedges  '  with  golden 
gorse  bright  blossoming,  as  none  blossom  now-a- 
day.'  We  have  heard  of  death,  but  we  know 
not  what  it  is  ;  and  the  word  change  has  no 
meaning  for  us  ;  and  summer  and  winter,  and 
seed-time  and  harvest,  has  each  its  unutterable 
joys.  Alas  !  we  can  never  remain  long  in  this 
happy  dream-land.  Nevertheless,  we  have  pro 
fited  greatly  by  the  journey.  The  cowslips  and 
violets  gathered  by  us  in  childhood,  shall  be  po 
tent  in  the  hour  of  temptation  ;  and  the  cap  of 
rushes  woven  for  us  by  kind  hands  in  days  gone 
by,  shall  be  a  surer  defence  than  a  helmet  of 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  35 

steel  in  the  hoar  of  battle.     No,  no  ;  we  will 
never  disgrace  our  antecedents. 

"There  is  one  quality  in  his  songs  to  which 
we  can  not  but  direct  attention  —  and  this  is  their 
almost  feminine  purity.  The  propensities  have 
had  their  laureates  ;  and  genius,  alas  !  has  often 
defiled  its  angel  wings  by  contact  with  the  sen 
sual  and  the  impure ;  but  Morris  has  never  at 
tempted  to  robe  vice  in  beauty  ;  and,  as  has 
been  well  remarked,  his  lays  can  bring  to  the 
cheek  of  purity  no  blush  save  that  of  pleasure." 

The  following  letter,  from  the  pen  of  GRACE 
GREENWOOD,  is  a  lady's  tribute  to  the  genius  of 
the  poet : — 

"  I  have  read  of  late,  with  renewed  pleasure 
and  higher  appreciation,  the  songs  and  ballads 
of  our  genial-hearted  countryman,  Morris.  I 
had  previously  worried  myself  by  a  course  of 
rather  dry  reading,  and  his  poetry,  tender,  mu 
sical,  fresh,  and  natural,  came  to  me  like  spring's 
first  sunshine,  the  song  of  her  first  birds,  the 
breath  of  her  first  violets. 

"What  a  contrast  is  this  pleasant  volume  to 
the  soul-racking  Festus,  which  has  been  one  of 
my  recent  passions.  That  remarkable  work  has 
passages  of  great  beauty  and  power,  linked  in 


36  MEMOIR   OF 

unnatural  marriage  with  much  that  is  poor  and 
weak.  It  is  like  a  stately  ruined  palace, 

'  Mingling  its  marble  with  the  dust  of  Rome ;' 

or  it  is  like  its  own  fabled  first  temple  built  to 
God,  in  the  new  earth  —  a  multitude  of  gems, 
swallowed  by  an  earthquake,  and  scattered 
through  a  world  of  baser  matter.  The  soul  of 
the  reader  now  faints  with  excess  of  beauty, 
now  shudders  at  the  terrible  and  the  revolting. 
The  young  poet's  muse  at  times  goes  like  Pro 
serpine  to  gather  flowers,  but  straightway  is 
seized  by  the  lord  of  the  infernal  regions,  and 
disappears  in  flame  and  darkness.  The  entire 
volume  is  a  poetical  Archipelago — isles  of  love 
liness  sprinkling  a  dead  sea  of  unprofitable  mat 
ter. 

"  It  were  absurd  to  compare  the  light  and 
graceful  poems  of  Morris  with  the  work  Festus 
—  a  simple  Grecian  arch  with  a  stupendous 
Turkish  mosque  —  an  Etruscan  vase  with  a 
Gothic  tower.  Yet  there  are  doubtless  many 
who  will  prefer  the  perfect  realization  of  modest 
aspirations,  to  grand  but  ineffectual  graspings 
after  glory's  highest  and  most  divine  guerdons  — 
a  quiet  walk  with  truth  and  nature,  to  an  Icarus 
flight  of  magnificent  absurdities. 

"  It  has  been  said  that  the  author  of  *  Long 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  37 

time  ago'  has  rung  too  many  changes  on  the 
sentiment  and  passion  of  love.  Love,  the  inspira 
tion  of  the  glorious  bards  of  old, 

*  Who  play  upon  the  heart  as  on  a  harp, 
And  make  our  eyes  bright  as  we  speak  of  them ;' 

'  love  ever-new,  everlasting,  fresh,  and  beautiful, 
now  as  when  the  silence  of  young  Eden  was 
thrilled,  but  scarce  broken,  by  the  voice  of  the 
first  lover  —  a  joy  and  a  source  of  joy  for  ever.7 

"I  know  it  is  mnch  the  fashion  now-a-days,  to 
hold  in  lordly  contempt  many  of  those  sweet  and 
holy  influences  which  are  — 

•    *  As  angel  hands,  enclosing  ours, 

Leading  us  back  to  Paradisean  bowers.' 

"  Love  and  liberty  are  fast  becoming  mere  ab 
stractions  to  the  enlightened  apprehension  of 
some  modern  wise  men.  It  is  sad  to  see  how 
soon  those  white-winged  visiters  soil  their  plu 
mage  and  change  their  very  natures  by  a  mere 
descent  into  the  philosophic  atmosphere  of  such 
mind.  One  is  reminded  of  the  words  of  Sweden- 
borg  — '  I  saw  a  great  truth  let  down  from  hea.- 
ven  into  hell,  and  it  there  became  a  lie! 

"  This  cynical  objection  to  the  lays  of  our  min 
strel,  surely  never  could  have  emanated  from  the 
heart  of  woman.  She  is  ever  loyal  to  love  — 
that  tender  and  yearning  principle  in  the  bosom 


38  MEMOIR   OF 

of  the  Father,  from  which  and  by  which  the 
feminine  nature  was  created. 

"  The  poems  of  Morris  are  indeed  like  those 
flowers  of  old,  born  of  the  blood-drops  which 
oozed  from  the  wounded  foot  of  the  queen  of 
love  —  blushing  crimson  to  the  very  heart ;  yet 
there  is  not,  to  my  knowledge,  in  the  whole 
range  of  English  literature,  so  large  a  collection 
of  amatory  songs  in  which  sensualism  and  volup 
tuousness  find  no  voice.  These  lays  can  bring  to 
the  cheek  of  purity  no  blush,  save  that  of  pleas 
ure —  the  mother  may  sing  them  to  her  child, 
the  bride  to  her  young  husband. 

"  Festus  has  an  eloquent  reply  to  such  as  hold 
love  a  theme  unworthy  the  true  bard  :  — 

*  Poets  are  all  who  love  —who  feel  great  truths, 
And  tell  them ;  and  the  truth  of  truths  is  love.' 

11  The  muse  of  Morris  was  Poesy's  own  'sum 
mer  child.'  Hope,  love,  and  happiness,  sunny- 
winged  fancies  and  golden-hued  imaginings,  have 
nested  in  his  heart  like  birds. 

"  His  verse  does  not  cause  one  to  tremble  and 
turn  pale  —  it  charms  and  refreshes.  It  does  not 
'possess  us  like  a  passion7  —  it  steals  upon  us 
like  a  spell.  It  does  not  storm  the  heart  like 
an  armed  host  —  it  is  like  the  visitation  of  gentle 
spirits, 

'  Coming  and  going  with  a  musical  lightness.' 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  39 

It  is  not  a  turbulent  mountain-torrent,  hurling 
itself  down  rocky  places  —  it  is  a  silver  stream, 
gliding  through  quiet  valleys,  in  whose  waves 
the  sweet  stars  are  mirrored,  on  whose  bosom 
the  water-lilies  sleep. 

"  Now  and  then  there  steals  in  a  strain  of  sad 
ness,  like  the  plaint  of  a  bereaved  bird  in  a  gar 
den  of  roses  ;  but  it  is  a  tender,  not  an  oppres 
sive  sadness,  and  we  know  that  the  rainbow 
beauty  of  the  verse  could  only  be  born  in  the 
wedlock  of  smiles  and  tears.  In  a  word,  his 
lays  are  not  'night  and  storm  and  darkness7  — 
they  are  morning  and  music  and  sunshine. 

"  It  were  idle  at  this  time  to  quote  or  com 
ment  upon  all  those  songs  of  Morris  best  known 
and  oftenest  sung.  It  would  be  introducing  to 
my  readers  old  friends  who  took  lodgings  in 
their  memories  '  long  time  ago.7  In  reference  to 
them,  I  would  only  remark  their  peculiar  adapt- 
edness  to  popular  taste,  the  keen  discrimination, 
the  nice  tact,  or,  to  use  one  of  Sir  James  Mack 
intosh's  happy  expressions,  the  'feelosophj'  with 
which  the  poet  has  interlaced  them  with  the 
heart-strings  of  a  nation. 

"  '  A  Rock  in  the  Wilderness '  is  an  ode  that 
any  poet  might  be  proud  to  own.  It  is  much  in 
the  style  of  Campbell  —  chaste,  devotional, '  beau 
tiful  exceedingly.'  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind 


40  MEMOIR   OF 

more  musically  sweet  than  the  serenade  °Tis 
now  the  promised  hour7 — the  first  lines  in  es 
pecial  — 

*  The  fountains  serenade  the  flowers, 

Upon  their  silver  lute  — 
And,  nestled  in  their  leafy  bowers, 
The  forest  birds  are  mute.'' 

"  Many  an  absent  lover  must  have  blessed  our 
lyrist,  for  giving 'voice  to  his  own  yearning  af 
fection,  half  sad  with  that  delicate  jealousy 
which  is  no  wrong  to  the  loved  one,  in  the  song 
'  When  other  friends  are  round  thee.' 

"  '  The  Bacchanal  ' — if  our  language  boasts  a 
lovelier  ballad  than  this,  it  has  never  met  my 
eye.  The  story  of  the  winning,  the  betraying, 
and  the  breaking  of  a  woman's  heart,  was  never 
told  more  touchingly.  '  The  Dismissed '  is  in  a 
peculiar  vein  of  rich  and  quiet  humor.  I  would 
commend  it  to  the  entire  class  of  rejected  lovers, 
as  containing  the  truest  philosophy.  '  Lines  after 
the  manner  of  the  olden  time'  remind  one  of  Sir 
John  Suckling.  They  are  'sunned  o'er  with 
love'  —  their  subject,  by  the  way.  'I  never 
have  been  false  to  thee'  was  an  emanation  from 
the  feminine  nature  of  the  minstrel  alone.  Who 
does  not  believe  the  poet  gifted  with  duality  of 
soul  ?  '  Think  of  me,  my  own  beloved,'  and 
'Rosabel,'  are  the  throbbings  of  a  lover's  breast, 
set  to  music ;  and  '  One  balmy  summer  night, 


GEORGE   P.    MORRIS.  41 

Mary/  '  The  heart  that  owns  thy  tyrant  sway/ 
and  *  When  I  was  in  my  teens/  the  distillation 
of  the  subtilest  sweets  lodged  in  the  innermost 
cells  of  all  flowers  dedicated  to  love. 

"I  come  now  to  my  favorite,  'Where  Hud 
son's  wave  ;'  a  poem  which  I  never  read  but  that 
it  glows  upon  my  lip  and  heart,  and  leaves  the 
air  of  my  thoughts  tremulous  with  musical  vi 
brations.  What  a  delicious  gush  of  parental 
feeling  !  How  daintily  and  delicately  move  the 
'  fitly  chosen  words/  tripping  along  like  silver- 
sandaled  fairies. 

"  Land-Ho  1'  and  the  '  Western  Refrain'  thrill 
one  gloriously.  '  The  Cottager's  Welcome '  would 
of  itself  carry  the  poet's  name  to  the  next  age, 
and  the  '  Croton  Ode'  keep  his  bays  green  with 
a  perpetual  baptism.  The  last-mentioned  is  fresh 
and  sparkling  as  its  subject,  and  displays  much 
of  the  imaginative  faculty. 

"  '  Oh,  a  merry  life  does  the  hunter  lead/ 
rolled  up  the  tenth  wave  of  Morris-ian  popular 
ity  at  the  West.  It  stirs  the  hunter's  heart  like 
a  bugle  blast — it  rings  out  clear  as  a  rifle-crack 
on  a  hunting  morning. 

11  General  Morris  has  recently  published  some 
songs,  which  have  all  the  grace,  melody,  and 
touching  sweetness  of  his  earlier  lays.  But  as 
these  have  been  artistically  set  to  music,  and 


42  MEMOIR   OF 

are  yet  in  the  first  season  of  popularity  —  are 
lying  on  the  pianos  and  'rolling  over  the  bright 
lip7  of  all  song-dom,  they  call  for  no  further 
mention  here. 

11 1  think  I  cannot  better  close  this  somewhat 
broken  and  imperfect  notice,  than  by  referring 
to  one  of  the  earlier  songs  of  Morris,  which, 
more  than  all  others,  perhaps,  has  endeared  him 
to  his  native  land.  *  Home  from  travel7  is  a 
simple,  hearty,  manly  embodiment  of  the  true 
spirit  of  patriotism,  a  sentiment  which  throbs 
like  a  strong  pulse  beneath  our  poet's  light  and 
graceful  verse,  and  needs  but  the  inspiration  of 
'stirring  times7  to  prompt  to  deeds  of  heroic 
valor,  like  the  lays  of  the  ancient  bards,  or  the 
Chansons  of  Beranger." 


The  biography  of  Morris  would  not  be  com 
plete  without  a  word  from  Willis.  We  have  a 
dash  of  his  pencil  in  the  following  letter  to  the 
editor  of  G-rahairfs  Magazine : — 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  To  ask  me  for  my  idea  of 
General  Morris,  is  like  asking  the  left  hand's  opi 
nion  of  the  dexterity  of  the  right.  I  have  lived 
so  long  with  the  'Brigadier7 — know  him  so  in 
timately —  worked  so  constantly  at  the  same 
rope,  and  thought  so  little  of  ever  separating 
from  him  (except  by  precedence  of  ferriage 


GEORGE   P.    MORRIS.  43 

over  the  Styx),  that  it  is  hard  to  shove  him  from 
me  to  the  perspective  distance  — •  hard  to  shut 
my  own  partial  eyes,  and  look  at  him  through 
other  people's.  I  will  try,  however  ;  and,  as  it 
is  done  with  but  one  foot  off  from  the  treadmill 
of  my  ceaseless  vocation,  you  will  excuse  both 
abruptness  and  brevity. 

"  Morris  is  the  best-known  poet  of  the  coun 
try,  by  acclamation,  not  by  criticism.  He  is 
just  what  poets  would  be  if  they  sang,  like  birds, 
without  criticism  ;  and  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  his 
fame,  that  it  seems  as  regardless  of  criticism,  as 
a  bird  in  the  air.  Nothing  can  stop  a  song  of 
his.  It  is  very  easy  to  say  that  they  are  easy 
to  do.  They  have  a  momentum,  somehow,  that 
it  is  difficult  for  others  to  give,  and  that  speeds 
them  to  the  far  goal  of  popularity  —  the  best 
proof  consisting  in  the  fact  that  he  can,  at  any 
moment,  get  fifty  dollars  for  a  song  unread, 
when  the  whole  remainder  of  the  American 
Parnassus  could  not  sell  one  to  the  same  buyer 
for  a  shilling. 

"  It  may,  or  may  not,  be  one  secret  of  his 
popularity,  but  it  is  the  truth  —  that  Morris's 
heart  is  at  the  level  of  most  other  people's,  and 
his  poetry  flows  out  by  that  door.  He  stands 
breast-high  in  the  common  stream  of  sympathy, 
and  the  fine  oil  of  his  poetic  feeling  goes  from 


44  MEMOIR   OF 

him  upon  an  element  it  is  its  nature  to  float 
upon,  and  which  carries  it  safe  to  other  bosoms, 
with  little  need  of  deep  diving  or  high  flying. 
His  sentiments  are  simple,  honest,  truthful,  and 
familiar  ;  his  language  is  pure  and  eminently 
musical,  and  he  is  prodigally  full  of  the  poetry 
of  every-day  feeling.  These  are  days  when 
poets  try  experiments  ;  and  while  others  succeed 
by  taking  the  world's  breath  away  with  flights 
and  plunges,  Morris  uses  his  feet  to  walk  quietly 
with  nature.  Ninety-nine  people  in  a  hundred, 
taken  as  they  come  in  the  census,  would  find 
more  to  admire  in  Morris's  songs,  than  in  the 
writings  of  any  other  American  poet ;  and  that 
is  a  parish  in  the  poetical  episcopate,  well  worthy 
a  wise  man's  nurture  and  prizing. 

"  As  to  the  man  —  Morris,  my  friend  —  I  can 
hardly  venture  to  'burn  intense  on  his  mous 
tache/  as  the  French  say — write  his  praises  un 
der  his  very  nose  —  but  as  far  off  as  Philadel 
phia,  you  may  pay  the  proper  tribute  to  his 
loyal  nature  and  manly  excellencies.  His  per 
sonal  qualities  have  made  him  universally  popu 
lar  ;  but  this  overflow  upon  the  world  does  not 
impoverish  him  for  his  friends.  I  have  outlined 
a  true  poet,  and  a  fine  fellow — fill  up  the  picture 
to  your  liking.  Yours,  very  truly, 

"  K  R  WILLIS." 


GEORGE   P.    MORRIS.  45 

In  1825,  General  Morris  wrote  the  drama  of 
"  Briercliff,"  a  play,  in  five  acts,  founded  upon 
events  of  the  American  Revolution.  It  was  per 
formed  forty  nights  in  succession  ;  and  the  man 
ager  paid  him  for  it  $3,500 — a  solid  proof  of  its 
attractive  popularity.  It  has  never  been  pub 
lished.  Prior,  and  subsequent  to  this  period,  his 
pen  was  actively  engaged  upon  various  literary 
and  dramatic  works. 

He  wrote  a  number  of  the  "  Welcomes  to  La 
fayette,"  and  songs  and  ballads,  which  were  uni 
versally  popular,  besides  many  prologues  and  ad 
dresses. 

In  1842,  he  wrote  an  opera  for  Mr.  C.  E. 
Horn,  called  the  "  Maid  of  Saxony,"  which  was 
performed  fourteen  nights,  with  great  success,  at 
the  Park  theatre.  The  press  of  the  city,  gener 
ally,  awarded  to  this  opera  the  highest  commen 
dation. 

From  the  period  when  General  Morris  com 
menced  his  career  as  a  writer,  his  pen  has  been 
constantly  employed  in  writing  poems,  songs, 
ballads,  and  prose  sketches. 

In  1840,  the  Appletons  published  an  edition 
of  his  poems,  beautifully  illustrated  by  Weir  & 
Chapman  ;  in  1842,  Paine  &  Burgess  published 
his  songs  and  ballads  ;  and  in  1853,  Scribner's 
edition,  illustrated  by  Weir  and  Darley,  ap- 


46  MEMOIR   OF 

peared.  This  last  beautiful  work  Las  had  an 
immense  sale. 

They  were  highly  commended  by  the  press 
throughout  the  country,  and  these  and  other 
editions  have  had  large  sales.  A  portion  of  his 
prose  writings,  under  the  title  of  "The  Little 
Frenchman  and  his  Water-Lots,"  were  published 
by  Lea  &  Blanch ard,  wrhich  edition  has  been 
followed  by  others,  enlarged  by  the  author. 

General  Morris  has  edited  a  number  of  works; 
among  them  are  the  "  Atlantic  Club  Book,  pub 
lished  by  the  Harpers  ;  "  The  Song- Writers  of 
America,"  by  Linen  &  Ferrin  ;  "  National  Melo 
dies,"  by  Horn  &  Davis  ;  and,  in  connection  with 
Mr.  Willis,  "  The  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Europe 
and  America,"  a  standard  work  of  great  value. 

In  1844,  in  connection  with  Mr.  Willis,  he  es 
tablished  a  beautiful  weekly  paper,  called  the 
"  New  Mirror,"  which,  in  consequence  of  the 
cover  and  engravings,  was  taxed  by  the  post- 
office  department  a  postage  equal  to  the  sub 
scription  price  ;  and  not  being  able  to  obtain  a 
just  reduction  from  Mr.  Wickliffe,  then  post 
master-general,  the  proprietors  discontinued  its 
publication,  after  a  year  and  a  half,  notwith 
standing  it  had  attained  a  circulation  of  ten 
thousand  copies. 

The  daily  " Evening  Mirror"  was  next  com- 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  47 

menced,  and  continued  for  one  year  by  Morris  & 
Willis. 

A  few  months  after  withdrawing  from  the 
"  Evening  Mirror,"  General  Morris  began  the 
publication  of  the  "  National  Press  and  Home 
Journal ;"  but  as  many  mistook  its  object  from 
its  name,  the  first  part  of  its  title  was  discon 
tinued  ;  and  in  November,  1846  (Mr.  Willis 
having  again  joined  his  old  friend  and  associate), 
appeared  the  first  number  of  the  "  Home  Jour 
nal,"  a  weekly  paper,  published  in  New  York 
every  Saturday,  which  is  edited  with  taste, 
spirit,  and  ability,  and  which  has  a  circulation 
of  many  thousand  copies. 

General  Morris  is  still  in  the  prime  and  vigor 
of  life,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  public  will 
yet  have  much  to  admire  from  his  pen,  and 
which  will,  without  doubt,  place  him  still  higher 
in  the  niche  of  fame.  His  residence  is  chiefly  at 
Undercliff,  his  country  seat,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson,  near  Cold  Spring,  surrounded  by  the 
most  lovely  and  beautiful  scenery  in  nature, 
which  can  not  fail  to  keep  the  muse  alive  within 
him,  and  tune  the  minstrel  to  further  and  still 
higher  efforts. 

Although  he  possesses  abilities  which  emi 
nently  qualify  him  for  public  station,  his  literary 
taste  and  habits  have,  in  spite  of  the  strenuous 


48  MEMOIR    OF   GEORGE   P.    MORRIS. 

solicitations  of  his  friends,  led  him  to  prefer  the 
retirement  of  private  life.  This,  however,  does 
not  prevent  his  taking  an  active  interest  in  all 
questions  of  public  good  ;  and  the  city  of  New 
York  is  greatly  indebted  to  his  vigorous  aid  for 
many  of  her  most  beautiful  and  permanent  im 
provements. 

We  can  not  close  this  sketch  without  adverting 
to  the  following  incident,  which  occurred  in 
the  British  House  of  Commons  : — 

"  Mr.  Cagley,  a  member  from  Yorkshire," 
says  the  London  Times,  "concluded  a  long 
speech  in  favor  of  protection,  by  quoting  the 
ballad  of  'Woodman,  spare  that  tree'  (which 
was  received  with  the  applause  of  the  whole 
house),  the  '  tree/  according  to  Mr.  Cagley,  be 
ing  the  '  Constitution/  and  Sir  Robert  Peel  the 
'  woodman/  about  to  cut  it  down." 

WThat  poet  could  desire  a  more  gratifying 
compliment  to  his  genius  ? 


POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


JPOEMS.  . 


THE   DESERTED    BRIDE. 

SUGGESTED    BY    A    SCENE    IN    THE    PLAY    OF    TUB 
HUNCHBACK. 

INSCRIBED    TO   JAMES   SHERIDAN   KNOWLES. 

"  LOVE  me  !  —  No. —  He  never  loved  me  !" 

Else  he'd  sooner  die  than  stain 
One  so  fond  as  he  has  proved  me 

With  the  hollow  world's  disdain. 
False  one,  go  —  my  doom  is  spoken, 
And  the  spell  that  bound  me  broken. 

Wed  him  ! —  Never.  —  He  has  lost  me  !  — 
Tears  !— Well,  let  them  flow  !— His  bride  ? 

No.  —  The  struggle  life  may  cost  me  ! 
But  he'll  find  that  I  have  pride  ! 

Love  is  not  an  idle  flower, 

Blooms  and  dies  the  self-same  hour. 


52  THE   DESERTED    BRIDE. 

Title,  land,  and  broad  dominion, 
With  himself  to  me  he  gave  ; 

Stooped  to  earth  his  spirit's  pinion, 
And  became  my  willing  slave  1 

Knelt  and  prayed  until  he  won  me  — 

Looks  he  coldly  now  upon  me  ? 

Ingrate  !  —  Never  sure  was  maiden 
Deeply  wronged  as  I.     With  grief 

My  true  breast  is  overladen  — 
Tears  afford  me  no  relief — 

Every  nerve  is  strained  and  aching, 

And  my  very  heart  is  breaking  ! 

Love  I  him  ? — Thus  scorned  and  slighted- 
Thrown,  like  a  worthless  weed,  apart  — 

Hopes  and  feelings  seared  and  blighted  — 
Love  him  ?  —  Yes,  with  all  my  heart ! 

With  a  passion  superhuman  — 

Constancy,  "  thy  name  is  woman." 

Love,  nor  time,  nor  mood,  can  fashion  — 

Love  ?  —  Idolatry's  the  word 
To  speak  the  broadest,  deepest  passion, 

Ever  woman's  heart  hath  stirred  ! 
Yain  to  still  the  mind's  desires, 
Which  consume  like  hidden  fires  ! 


THE    DESERTED    BRIDE.  53 

Wrecked  and  wretched,  lost  and  lonely, 
Crushed  by  griefs  oppressive  weight 

With  a  prayer  for  Clifford  only, 
I  resign  me  to  my  fate. 

Chains  that  bind  the  soul  I  Ve  proven 

Strong  as  they  were  iron  woven. 

Deep  the  wo  that  fast  is  sending 
From  my  cheek  its  healthful  bloom  ; 

Sad  my  thoughts  as  willows  bending 
O'er  the  borders  of  the  tomb  ! 

Without  Clifford,  not  a  blessing 

In  the  world  is  worth  possessing. 

Wealth  ! — a  straw  within  the  balance 
Opposed  to  love,  'twill  strike  the  beam  : 

Kindred,  friendship,  beauty,  talents  ?  — 
All  to  love  as  nothing  seem  ; 

Weigh  love  against  all  else  together, 

And  solid  gold  against  a  feather. 

Hope  is  flown — away  disguises 

Naught  but  death  relief  can  give  — 

For  the  love  he  little  prizes 
Can  not  cease,  and  Julia  live  ! 

Soon  my  thread  of  life  will  sever  — 

Cifford,  fare  thec  well — for  ever  ! 


54  THE    MAIN-TRUCK  ; 


THE  MAIN-TRUCK;   OR,  A  LEAP  FOR  LIFE.* 

A   NAUTICAL   BALLAD. 

OLD  Ironsides  at  anchor  lay, 

In  the  harbor  of  Mahon  ; 
A  dead  calm  rested  on  the  bay  — 

The  waves  to  sleep  had  gone  ; 
When  little  Jack,  the  captain's  son, 

With  gallant  hardihood, 
Climbed  shroud  and  spar — and  then  upon 

The  main-truck  rose  and  stood  ! 

A  shudder  ran  through  every  vein  — 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  high  ! 
There  stood  the  boy,  with  dizzy  brain, 

Between  the  sea  and  sky  I 
No  hold  had  he  above — below, 

Alone  he  stood  in  air  I 
At  that  far  height  none  dared  to  go  — 

No  aid  could  reach  him  there. 

We  gazed  —  but  not  a  man  could  speak  f  — 

With  horror  all  aghast 
In  groups,  with  pallid  brow  and  cheek, 

We  watched  the  quivering  mast. 

*  Founded  up  m  a  well-known,  tale  from  the  pen  of  tlie  late 
William  Leggett,  Esq. 


OR,    A   LEAP   FOR   LIFE.  55 

The  atmosphere  grew  thick  and  hot, 

And  of  a  lurid  hue, 
As,  riveted  unto  the  spot, 

Stood  officers  and  crew. 

The  father  came  on  deck  —  He  gasped, 

"0,  God,  Thy  will  be  done  I" 
Then  suddenly  a  rifle  grasped, 

And  aimed  it  at  his  son  ! 
"Jump  far  out,  boy  !  into  the  wave  ! 

Jump,  or  I  fire  !"  he  said  : 
"  That  only  chance  your  life  can  save  ! 

Jump — jump,  boy  1" — He  obeyed. 

He  sank — he  rose  —  he  lived — he  moved  — 

He  for  the  ship  struck  out  ! 
On  board  we  hailed  the  lad  beloved 

With  many  a  manly  shout. 
His  father  drew,  in  silent  joy, 

Those  wet  arms  round  his  neck, 
Then  folded  to  his  heart  the  boy, 

And  fainted  on  the  deck  ! 


56  POETRY. 


POETRY. 

To  me  the  world's  an  open  book 

Of  sweet  and  pleasant  poetry  ; 
I  read  it  in  the  running  brook 

That  sings  its  way  toward  the  sea. 
It  whispers  in  the  leaves  of  trees, 

The  swelling  grain,  the  waving  grass, 
And  in  the  cool,  fresh  evening  breeze 

That  crisps  the  wavelets  as  they  pass. 

The  flowers  below,  the  stars  above, 

In  all  their  bloom  and  brightness  given, 
Are,  like  the  attributes  of  love, 

The  poetry  of  earth  and  heaven. 
Thus  Nature's  volume,  read  aright, 

Attunes  the  soul  to  minstrelsy, 
Tinging  life's  clouds  with  rosy  light, 

And  all  the  world  with  poetry. 


THE    CROTON    ODE.  57 


THE  CROTON  ODE. 

WRITTEN   AT    THE    REQUEST    OF    THE    CORPORATION 
OF   THE    CITY    OF   NEW    YORK. 

Gushing  from  this  living  fountain, 

Music  pours  a  falling  strain, 
As  the  goddess  of  the  mountain 

Comes  with  all  her  sparkling  train. 
From  her  grotto-springs  advancing, 

Glittering  in  her  feathery  spray, 
.  Woodland  fays  beside  her  dancing, 

She  pursues  her  winding  way. 

Gently  o'er  the  rippling  water, 

In  her  coral-shallop  bright, 
Glides  the  rock-king's  dove-eyed  daughter, 

Decked  in  robes  of  virgin  white. 
JSTymphs  and  naiads,  sweetly  smiling, 

Urge  her  bark  with  pearly  hand, 
Merrily  the  sylph  beguiling 

From  the  nooks  of  fairy-land. 

Swimming  on  the  snow-curled  billow, 

See  the  river-spirits  fair 
Lay  their  cheeks,  as  on  a  pillow, 

With  the  foam-beads  in  their  hair. 


58  THE    CROTON    ODE. 

Thus  attended,  hither  wending, 
Floats  the  lovely  oread  now, 

Edenrs  arch  of  promise  bending 
Over  her  translucent  brow. 

Hail  the  wanderer  from  a  far  land  ! 

Bind  her  flowing  tresses  up  t 
Crown  her  with  a  fadeless  garland; 

And  with  crystal  brim  the  cup. 
From  her  haunts  of  deep  seclusion, 

Let  Intemperance  greet  her  too, 
And  the  heat  of  his  delusion 

Sprinkle  with  this  mountain-dew. 

Water  leaps  as  if  delighted, 

While  her  conquered  foes  retire  I 
Pale  Contagion  flies  affrighted 

With  the  baffled  demon  Fire  t 
Safety  dwells  in  her  dominions, 

Health  and  Beauty  with  her  move, 
And  entwine  their  circling  pinions 

In  a  sisterhood  of  love. 

Water  shouts  a  glad  hosanna  ! 

Bubbles  up  the  earth  to  bless  ! 
Cheers  it  like  the  precious  manna 

In  the  barren  wilderness. 


FRAGMENT    OF    AN    INDIAN    POEM.  59 

Here  we  wondering  gaze,  assembled 

Like  the  grateful  Hebrew  band, 
When  the  hidden  fountain  trembled, 

And  obeyed  the  prophet's  wand. 

Round  the  aqueducts  of  story, 

As  the  mists  of  Lethe  throng, 
Croton's  waves  in  all  their  glory 

Troop  in  melody  along. 
Ever  sparkling,  bright,  and  single, 

Will  this  rock-ribbed  stream  appear, 
When  posterity  shall  mingle 

Like  the  gathered  waters  here. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  INDIAN  POEM. 

=*  *  #  #  *  * 

TIIEY  come  !  —  Be  firm  —  in  silence  rally  ! 

The  long-knives  our  retreat  have  found  ! 
Hark  !  —  their  tramp  is  in  the  valley, 

And  they  hem  the  forest  round  I 
The  burdened  boughs  with  pale  scouts  quiver, 

The  echoing  hills  tumultuous  ring, 
While  across  the  eddying  river 

Their  barks,  like  foaming  war-steeds,  spring! 


60  FRAGMENT   OF   AN   INDIAN   POEM. 

The  blood-hounds  darken  land  and  water  ; 
They  come  —  like  buffaloes  for  slaughter  ! 

See  their  glittering  ranks  advancing, 
See  upon  the  free  winds  dancing 

Pennon  proud  and  gaudy  plume. 
The  strangers  come  in  evil  hour, 
In  pomp,  and  panoply,  and  power ! 
But,  while  upon  our  tribes  they  lower, 
Think  they  our  manly  hearts  will  cower 

To  meet  a  warrior's  doom  ? 

Right  they  forget  while  strength  they  feel ; 
Our  veins  they  drain,  our  land  they  steal ; 
And  should  the  vanquished  Indian  kneel, 

They  spurn  him  from  their  sight ! 
Be  set  for  ever  in  disgrace 
The  glory  of  the  red-man's  race, 
If  from  the  foe  we  turn  our  face, 

Or  safety  seek  in  flight ! 

They  come  —  Up,  and  upon  them  braves ! 
Fight  for  your  altars  and  your  graves ! 
Drive  back  the  stern,  invading  slaves, 

In  fight  till  now  victorious ! 
Like  lightning  from  storm-clouds  on  high, 
The  hurtling,  death- winged  arrows  fly, 
And  wind-rows  of  pale  warriors  die !  — 


FRAGMENT   OF   AN    INDIAN    POEM.  61 

Oh !  never  has  the  sun's  bright  eye 
Looked  from  his  hill-tops  in  the  sky 
Upon  a  field  so  glorious  I 


They're  gone  —  again  the  red-men  rally  ; 

With  dance  and  song  the  woods  resound  : 
The  hatchet's  buried  in  the  valley  ; 

]STo  foe  profanes  our  hunting-ground  ! 
The  green  leaves  on  the  blithe  boughs  quiver, 

The  verdant  hills  with  song-birds  ring, 
While  our  bark-canoes  the  river 

Skim  like  swallows  on  the  wing. 
Mirth  pervades  the  land  and  water, 
Free  from  famine,  sword,  and  slaughter. 


Let  us,  by  this  gentle  river, 
Blunt  the  axe  and  break  the  quiver, 
While,  as  leaves  upon  the  spray, 
Peaceful  flow  our  cares  away. 

*          #          #          *          #          # 

Yet,  alas  !  the  hour  is  brief 

Left  for  either  joy  or  grief! 

All  on  earth  that  we  inherit 

From  the  hands  of  the  Great  Spirit  — 


62  FRAGMENT    OF   AN    INDIAN    POEM. 

Wigwam,  hill,  plain,  lake,  and  field  — 
To  the  white-man  must  we  yield  ; 
For,  like  sun-down  on  the  waves, 
We  are  sinking  to  our  graves ! 

From  this  wilderness  of  wo 
Like  a  caravan  we  go, 
Leaving  all  our  groves  and  streams 
For  the  far-off  land  of  dreams. 
There  are  prairies  waving  high, 
Boundless  as  the  sheeted  sky, 
Where  our  fathers'  spirits  roam, 
And  the  red-man  has  a  home. 

Let  tradition  tell  our  story, 
As  we  fade  in  cloudless  glory, 
As  we  seek  the  land  of  rest 
Beyond  the  borders  of  the  west, 
No  eye  but  ours  may  look  upon  — 

WE    ARE    THE    CHILDREN    OF   THE    SUN. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 


LAND-HO!   •  63 


LAND-HO ! 

Up,  up  with  the  signal !  —  The  land  is  in  sight ! 
We'll  be  happy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night! 
The  cold  cheerless  ocean  in  safety  we've  passed, 
And  the  warm  genial  earth  glads  our  vision  at 

last, 
In  the  land  of  the  stranger  true  hearts  we  shall 

find, 

To  soothe  us  in  absence  of  those  left  behind. 
Land  !  — land-ho  !  —  All  hearts  glow  with  joy  at 

the  sight ! 
We  '11  be  happy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night ! 

The  signal  is  waving !  —  Till  morn  we'll  remain, 
Then  part  in  the  hope  to  meet  one  day  again ! 
Round  the  hearth-stone  of  home  in  the  land  of 

our  birth, 

The  holiest  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth  I 
Dear  country !  our  thoughts  are  as  constant  to 

to  thee 
As  the  steel  to  the  star,  or  the  stream  to  the 

sea. 
Ho! — land-ho! — We  near  it  I  —  We  bound  at 

the  sight ! 
Then  be  happy,  if  never  again  boys,  to-night ! 


64  WOODMAN,    SPARE   THAT  TREE, 

The  signal  is  answered !  —  The  foam-sparkles  rise 
Like  tears  from  the  fountain  of  joy  to  the  eyes ! 
May  rain-drops  that  fall  from  the  storm-clouds 

of  care, 

Melt  away  in  the  sun-beaming  smiles  of  the  fair ! 
One  health,  as  chime  gaily  the  nautical  bells : 
To    woman  —  God   bless   her! — wherever   she 

dwells ! 
THE  PILOT  ?s  ON  BOARD  !  —  Thank  heaven,  all 's 

right ! 
So  be  happy,  if  never  again,  boys,  to-night. 


WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  THEE! 

WOODMAN,  spare  that  treeJ 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  3 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  1 711  protect  it  now, 
7T  was  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea  — 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 


WOODMAN,    SPARE    THAT    TREE.  65 

Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties  ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade  ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here  ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand  — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear,  . 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand. 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree !  the  storm  still  brave  ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot ; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 
5 


66  THE  COTTAGER'S  WELCOME. 


THE  COTTAGER'S  WELCOME. 

HARD  by  I've  a  cottage  that  stands  near  the 
wood  — 

A  stream  glides  in  peace  at  the  door  — 
Where  all  who  will  tarry,  't  is  well  understood, 

Receive  hospitality's  store. 
To  the  cheer  that  the  brook  and  the  thicket  af 
ford, 

The  stranger  we  ever  invite  : 
You're  welcome  to  freely  partake  at  the  board, 

And  afterwards  rest  for  the  night. 

The  birds  in  the  morning  will  sing   from   the 
trees, 

And  herald  the  young  god  of  day  ; 
Then,  with  him  uprising,  depart  if  you  please  — 

We  '11  set  you  refreshed  on  the  way  : 
Your  coin  for  our  service  we  sternly  reject ; 

No  traffic  for  gain  we  pursue, 
And  all  the  reward  that  we  wish  or  expect, 

We  take  in  the  good  that  we  do. 

Mankind  are  all  pilgrims  on  life's  weary  road, 

And  many  would  wander  astray 
In  seeking  Eternity's  silent  abode, 

Did  Mercy  not  point  out  the  way  ! 


THE   LAND   OF   WASHINGTON.  67 

If  all  would  their  duty  discharge  as  they  should 
To  those  who  are  friendless  and  poor, 

The  world   would  resemble   my   cot  near   the 

wood, 
And  life  the  sweet  stream  at  my  door. 


THE  LAND  OF  WASHINGTON. 

I  GLORY  in  the  sages 

Who,  in  the  days  of  yore, 
In  combat  met  the  foemen, 

And  drove  them  from  our  shore. 
Who  flung  our  banner's  starry  field 

In  triumph  to  the  breeze, 
And  spread  broad  maps  of  cities  where 

Once  waved  the  forest-trees. 

— Hurrah  !  — 

* 

I  glory  in  the  spirit 

Which  goaded  them  to  rise 
And  found  a  mighty  nation 

Beneath  the  western  skies. 
No  clime  so  bright  and  beautiful 

As  that  where  sets  the  sun  ; 
No  land  so  fertile,  fair,  and  free, 

As  that  of  Washington. 
—  Hurrah  1  — 


68  THE    FLAG    OF    OUR   UNION. 


THE  ELAG  OF  OUR  UNION. 

"A  SONG  for   our   banner?" — The  watchword 
recall 

Which  gave  the  Republic  her  station  : 
"  United  we  stand  —  divided  we  fall  P— 

It  made  and  preserves  us  a  nation  ! 
The  union  of  lakes  —  the  union  of  lands  — 

The  union  of  States  none  can  sever — 
The  union  of  hearts  —  the  union  of  hands  — 

And  the  Flag  of  the  Union  for  ever 
And  ever  1 

The  Flag  of  our  Union  for  ever 

What  God  in  his  niercy  and  wisdom  designed,  • 

And  armed  with  his  weapons  of  thunder, 
Not  all  the  earth's  despots  and  factions  combined 

Have  the  power  to  conquer  or  sunder ! 
The  union  of  lakes  —  the  union  of  lands  — 

The  union  of  states  none  can  sever — 
The  union  of  hearts  —  the  union  of  hands  — 

And  the  Flag  of  the  Union  for  ever 
And  ever! 

The  Flag  of  our  Union  for  ever  1 


LINES.  69 

ADDITIONAL,  TERSE. 

Oh,  keep  that  flag  flying!  —  The  pride  of  the 
van! 

To  all  other  nations  display  it ! 
The  ladies  for  union  are  all  to  a — man ! 

But  not  to  the  man  who  rd  betray  it. 
Then  the  union  of  lakes  —  the  union  of  lands  — 

The  union  of  states  none  can  sever  — 
The  union  of  hearts  —  the  union  of  hands  — 

And  the  Flag  of  the  Union  for  ever 
And  ever  I 

The  Flag  of  our  Union  for  ever ! 


LINES 

AFTER  THE   MANNER   OF   THE   OLDEN   TIME. 

0  LOVE  !  the  mischief  thou  hast  done ! 

Thou  god  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  !  — 
None  can  escape  thee — yes  there's  one  — 

All  others  find  the  effort  vain  : 
Thou  cause  of  all  my  smiles  and  tears  ! 
Thou  blight  and  bloom  of  all  my  years ! 


70  LINES. 

Love  bathes  him  in  the  morning  dews, 

Reclines  him  in  the  lily  bells, 
Reposes  in  the  rainbow  hues, 

And  sparkles  in  the  crystal  wells, 
Or  hies  him  to  the  coral-caves, 
Where  sea-nymphs  sport  beneath  the  waves. 

Love  vibrates  in  the  wind-harp's  tune  — 
With  fays  and  oreads  lingers  he  — 

Gleams  in  th'  ring  of  the  watery  moon, 
Or  treads  the  pebbles  of  the  sea. 

Love  rules  "  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove  "- 

Oh,  everywhere  we  meet  thee,  Love  ! 

And  everywhere  he  welcome  finds, 

'  From  cottage-door  to  palace-porch  — 
Love  enters  free  as  spicy  winds, 

With  purple  wings  and  lighted  torch, 
With  tripping  feet  and  silvery  tongue, 
And  bow  and  darts  behind  him  slung. 

He  tinkles  in  the  shepherd's  bell 
The  village  maiden  leans  to  hear — 

By  lattice  high  he  weaves  his  spell, 
For  lady  fair  and  cavalier  : 

Like  sun-bursts  on  the  mountain  snow, 

Love's  genial  warmth  melts  high  and  low. 


THE   DREAM   OF   LOVE.  71 

Then  why,  ye  nymphs  Arcadian,  why — 
Since  Love  is  general  as  the  air — 

Why  does  he  not  to  Lelia  fly, 
And  soften  that  obdurate  fair? 

Scorn  nerves  her  proud,  disdainful  heart ! 

She  scoffs  at  Love  and  all  his  art ! 


Oh,  boy-god,  Love  !  —  An  archer  thou !  — 
Thy  utmost  skill  I  fain  would  test ; 

One  arrow  aim  at  Lelia  now, 

And  let  thy  target  be  her  breast ! 

Her  heart  bind  in  thy  captive  train, 

Or  give  me  back  my  own  again  1 


THE  DREAM  OF  LOVE. 

I  VE  had  the  heart-ache  many  times, 

At  the  mere  mention  of  a  name 
I've  never  woven  in  my  rhymes, 

Though  from  it  inspiration  came. 
It  is  in  truth  a  holy  thing, 

Life-cherished  from  the  world  apart— 
A  dove  that  never  tries  its  wing, 

But  broods  and  nestles  in  the  heart. 


72  THE    DREAM    OF   LOVE. 

That  name  of  melody  recalls 

Her  gentle  look  and  winning  ways 
Whose  portrait  hangs  on  memory's  walls, 

In  the  fond  light  of  other  days. 
In  the  dream-land  of  Poetry, 

Reclining  in  its  leafy  bowers, 
Her  bright  eyes  in  the  stars  I  see, 

And  her  sweet  semblance  in  the  flowers. 


Her  artless  dalliance  and  grace  — 

The  joy  that  lighted  up  her  brow — 
The  sweet  expression  of  her  face  — 

Her  form — it  stands  before  me  now  ! 
And  I  can  fancy  that  I  hear 

The  woodland  songs  she  used  to  sing, 
Which  stole  to  my  attending  ear, 

Like  the  first  harbingers  of  spring. 


The  beauty  of  the  earth  was  hers, 

And  hers  the  purity  of  heaven  ; 
Alone,  of  all  her  worshippers, 

To  me  her  maiden  vows  were  given. 
They  little  know  the  human  heart, 

Who  think  such  love  with  time  expires  ; 
Once  kindled f  it  will  ne'er  depart, 

But  burn  through  life  with  all  its  fires. 


I'M    WITH    YOU    ONCE    AGAIN.  73 

We  parted  —  doomed  no  more  to  meet  — 

The  blow  fell  with  a  stunning  power  — 
And  yet  my  pulse  will  strangely  beat 

At  the  remembrance  of  that  hour  ! 
But  time  and  change  their  healing  brought, 

And  years  have  passed  in  seeming  glee, 
But  still  alone  of  her  I've  thought 

Who's  now  a  memory  to  me. 

There  may  be  many  who  will  deem 

This  strain  a  wayward,  youthful  folly, 
To  be  derided  as  a  dream 

Born  of  the  poet's  melancholy. 
The  wealth  of  worlds,  if  it  were  mine, 

With  all  that  follows  in  its  train, 
I  would  with  gratitude  resign, 

To  dream  that  dream  of  love  again. 


I'M  WITH  YOU  ONCE  AGAIN. 

I'M  with  you  once  again,  my  friends, 
No  more  my  footsteps  roam  ; 

Where  it  began  my  journey  ends, 
Amid  the  scenes  of  home. 


74  I7M    WITH    YOU    ONCE    AGAIN. 

No  other  clime  has  skies  so  blue, 
Or  streams  so  broad  and  clear, 

And  where  are  hearts  so  warm  and  true 
As  those  that  meet  me  here  ? 

Since  last  'with  spirits,  wild  and  free, 

I  pressed  my  native  strand, 
I  Ve  wandered  many  miles  at  sea, 

And  many  miles  on  land. 
I've  seen  fair  realms  of  the  earth 

By  rude  commotion  torn, 
Which  taught  me  how  to  prize  the  worth 

Of  that  where  I  was  born. 

In  other  countries,  when  I  heard 

The  language  of  my  own, 
How  fondly  each  familiar  word 

Awoke  an  answering  tone  ! 
But  when  our  woodland  songs  were  sung 

Upon  a  foreign  mart, 
The  vows  that  faltered  on  the  tongue 

With  rapture  thrilled  the  heart !    • 

My  native  land,  I  turn  to  you, 
With  blessing  and  with  prayer, 

Where  man  is  brave  and  woman  true; 
And  free  as  mountain  air. 


OH,    WOULD   THAT    SHE   WERE   HERE.  75 

Long  may  our  flag  in  triumph  wave 

Against  the  world  combined, 
And  friends  a  welcome  —  foes  a  grave, 

Within  our  borders  find. 


OH,  WOULD  THAT  SHE  WERE  HERE ! 

OH,  would  that  she  were  here, 

These  hills  and  dales  among, 
Where  vocal  groves  are  gayly  mocked 

By  Echo's  airy  tongue  : 
Where  jocund  nature  smiles 

In  all  her  boon  attire, 
And  roams  the  deeply-tangled  wilds 

Of  hawthorn  and  sweet-brier. 
Oh,  would  that  she  were  — 

The  gentle  maid  I  sing, 
Whose  voice  is  cheerful  as  the  songs 

Of  forest-birds  in  spring  ! 

Oh,  would  that  she  were  here, 

Where  the  free  waters  leap, 
Shouting  in  sportive  joyousness 

Adown  the  rocky  steep  : 
Where  zephyrs  crisp  and  cool 

The  fountains  as  they  play, 


76  THE    SWORD   AND   THE    STAFF. 

With  health  upon  their  wings  of  light, 
And  gladness  in  their  way. 

Oh,  would  that  she  were  here, 
With  these  balm-breathing  trees, 

The  sylvan  daughters  of  the  sun, 
The  rain-cloud,  and  the  breeze  ! 

Oh,  would  that  she  were  here, 

Where  glide  the  rosy  hours, 
Murm'ring  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees, 

And  fragrant  with  the  flowers  : 
Where  Heaven's  redeeming  love 

Spans  earth  in  Mercy's  bow  — 
The  promise  of  the  world  above 

Unto  the  world  below. 
Oh,  would  that  she  were  here, 

Amid  these  shades  serene  — 
Oh,  for  the  spell  of  woman's  love, 

To  consecrate  the  scene  ! 


THE   SWORD  AND  THE  STAFF. 

THE  sword  of  the  hero  ! 

The  staff  of  the  sage  ! 
Whose  valor  and  wisdom 

Are  stamped  on  the  age  ! 


THE    SWORD    AND   THE    STAFF. 

Time-hallowed  mementoes 
Of  those  who  have  riven 

The  sceptre  from  tyrants, 

"  The  lightning  from  heaven  P 

This  weapon,  0  Freedom  ! 

Was  drawn  by  thy  son, 
And  it  never  was  sheathed 

Till  the  battle  was  won  ! 
No  stain  of  dishonor 
Upon  it  we  see  ! 
'T  was  never  surrendered  — 

Except  to  the  free  ! 

While  Fame  claims  the  hero 

And  patriot  sage, 
Their  names  to  emblazon 

On  History's  page, 
No  holier  relics 

Will  liberty  hoard 
Th#n  FRANKLIN'S  staff,  guarded 

By  WASHINGTON'S  sword. 


78  THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  DAUGHTER. 


THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

UPON  the  barren  sand 

A  single  captive  stood  ; 
Around  him  carne,  with  bow  and  brand, 

The  red-men  of  the  wood. 
Like  him  of  old,  his  doom  he  hears, 

Rock-bound  on  ocean's  rim  : 
The  chieftain's  daughter  knelt  in  tears, 

And  breathed  a  prayer  for  him. 

Above  his  head  in  air 

The  savage  war-club  swung  : 
The  frantic  girl,  in  wild  despair, 

Her  arms  about  him  flung. 
Then  shook  the  warriors  of  the  shade, 

Like  leaves  on  aspen  limb  — 
Subdued  by  that  heroic  maid  * 

Who  breathed  a  prayer  for  him. 

"Unbind  him  I"  gasped  the  chief — 

"  Obey  your  king's  decree  !" 
He  kissed  away  her  tears  of  grief, 

And  set  the  captive  free. 


THY    WILL    BE    DONE. 


7Tis  ever  thus,  when,  in  life's  storm, 
Hope's  star  to  man  grows  dim, 

An  angel  kneels  in  woman's  form, 
And  breathes  a  prayer  for  him. 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 

SEARCHER  of  Hearts  ! — from  mine  erase 
All  thoughts  that  should  not  be, 

And  in  its  deep  recesses  trace 
Mj  gratitude  to  Thee ! 

Hearer  of  Prayer  !  —  oh,  guide  aright 
Each  word  and  deed  of  mine  ; 

Life's  battle  teach  me  how  to  fight, 
And  be  the  victory  Thine. 

Giver  of  All !  —for  every  good  — 

In  the  Redeemer  came  — 
For  raiment,  shelter,  and  for  food, 

I  thank  Thee  in  His  name. 

Father  and  Son  and  Holy  Ghost ! 

Thou  glorious  Three  in  One  ! 
Thou  knowest  best  what  I  need  most, 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 


80  LIFE    IN   THE    WEST. 


LIFE  IN  THE  WEST. 

Ho !    brothers  —  come    hither   and   list   to  my 

story  — 

Merry  and  brief  will  the  narrative  be  . 
Here,  like  a  monarch,  I  reign  in  my  glory  — 

Master  am  I,  boys,  of  all  that  I  see ! 
Where  once  frowned  a  forest,  a  garden  is  smil 
ing  - 
The  meadow  and  moorland  and  marshes  no 

more  ; 

And  there  curls  the  smoke  of  my  cottage,  be 
guiling 
The  children  who  cluster  like  grapes  round  my 

door. 

Then  enter,  boys  ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 

The  land  of  the  heart  is  the  land  of  the  West ! 

Oho,  boys  !  —  oho,  boys  !  — oho ! 

Talk  not  of  the  town,  boys  —  give  me  the  broad 

prairie, 
Where  man,  like  the  wind,  roams  impulsive 

and  free : 
Behold  how  its  beautiful  colors  all  vary, 

Like  those  of  the  clouds,  or  the  deep-rolling 
sea  ! 


LIFE    IX    THE    WEST.  81 

A  life  in  the  woods,  boys,  is  even  as  changing ; 

With  proud  independence  we  season  our  cheer, 
And  those  who  the  world  are  for  happiness  rang 
ing, 

Won't  find  it  at  all  if  they  don't  find  it  here. 
Then  enter,  boys  ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest  I 
I  '11  show  you  the  life,  boys,  we  live  in  the  West ! 
Oho,  boys !  —  oho,  boys  !  —  oho ! 

Here,   brothers,    secure   from   all   turmoil    and 

danger, 
We  reap  what  we  sow,  for  the  soil  is  our 

own  ; 
We  spread  hospitality's  board  for  the  stranger, 

And  care  not  a  jot  for  the  king  on  his  throne. 
We  never  know  want,  for  we  live  by  our  labor, 

And  in  it  contentment  and  happiness  find  ; 
We  do  what  we  can  for  a  friend  or  a  neighbor, 
And  die,  boys,  in  peace  and  good-will  to  man 
kind. 

Then  enter,  boys  ;  cheerly,  boys,  enter  and  rest ; 
You  know  how  we  live,  boys,  and  die  in  the 
West! 

Oho,  boys !  —  oho,  boys  !  —  oho ! 


SONG    OF   MARION'S    MEN. 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

IN  the  ranks  of  Marion's  band, 
Through  morass  and  wooded  land, 
Over  beach  of  yellow  sand, 

Mountain,  plain,  and  valley, 
A  southern  maid,  in  all  her  pride, 
Marched  gayly  at  her  lover's  side, 
In  such  disguise 
That  e'en  his  eyes 
Did  not  discover  Sallie ! 

When  returned  from  midnight  tramp, 
Through  the  forest  dark  and  damp, 
On  his  straw-couch  in  the  camp, 

In  his  dreams  he  'd  dally 
With  that  devoted,  gentle  fair, 
Whose  large  black  eyes  and  flowing  hair 
So  near  him  seem, 
That  in  his  dream, 
He  breathes  his  love  for  Sallie  ! 

Oh,  what  joy  that  maiden  knew, 
When  she  found  her  lover  true !  — 
Suddenly  the  trumpet  blew, 
Marion's  men  to  rally  ! 


JANET  MORE  A.  83 

To  ward  the  death-spear  from  his  side !  — 
In  battle  by  Santee  she  died  !  — 

Where  sings  the  surge 

A  ceaseless  dirge 
Near  the  lone  grave  of  Sallie. 


JANET  McKEA. 

SHE  heard  the  fight  was  over, 

And  won  the  wreath  of  fame ! 
When  tidings  from  her  lover, 

With  his  good  war-steed  came  : 
To  guard  her  safely  to  his  tent, 
The  red-men  of  the  woods  were  sent. 

They  led  her  where  sweet  waters  gush ! 
Under  the  pine-tree  bough ! 

The  tomahawk  is  raised  to  crush  — 
'T  is  buried  in  her  brow !  -- 
She  sleeps  beneath  that  pine-tree  now  ! 

Her  broken-hearted  lover 

In  hopeless  conflict  died ! 
The  forest-leaves  now  cover 

That  soldier  and  his  bride  ! 
The  frown  of  the  Great  Spirit  fell 
Upon  the  red-men  like  a  spell ! 


84:  LISETTE. 

No  more  those  waters  slake  their  thirst, 
Shadeless  to  them  that  tree ! 

O'er  land  and  lake  they  roam  accurst, 
And  in  the  clouds  they  see 
Thy  spirit,  unavenged,  McRea  1 


LISETTE. 

WHEN  Love  in  myrtle  shades  reposed, 
His  bow  and  darts  behind  him  slung  ; 

As  dewey  twilight  round  him  closed, 
Lisette  these  numbers  sung  : 

"  0  Love  I  thy  sylvan  bower 

I  ?11  fly  while  I  Ve  the  power  -r 

Thy  primrose  way  leads  maids  where  they 

Love,  honor,  and  obey  1" 

"Escape,"  the  boy-god  said,  " is  vain," 
And  shook  the  diamonds  from  his  wings  ; 

"  I  '11  bind  thee  captive  in  my  train, 
Fairest  of  earthly  things !" 

"  Go,  saucy  archer,  go  !' 

I  freedom's  value  know  : 

Begone,  I  pray  —  to  none  I'll  sa/j 

Love,  honor,  and  obey !" 


MY  MOTHERS    BIBLE.  85 

"  Speed,  arrow,  to  thy  mark !"  he  cried  — 

Swift  as  a  ray  of  light  it  flew ! 
Love  spread  his  purple  pinions  wide, 

And  faded  from  her  view ! 
Joy  filled  that  maiden's  eyes  — 
Twin  load-stars  from  the  skies  i — 
And  one  bright  day  her  lips  did  say, 
"  Love,  honor,  and  obey  F 


MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE. 

THIS  book  is  all  that  *s  left  me  now  I — 

Tears  will  unbidden  start  — 
With  faltering  lip  and  throbbing  brow 

I  press  it  to  my  heart. 
For  many  generations  past, 

Here  is  our  family  tree  ; 
My  mother's-  hands  this  Bible  clasped, 

She,  dying,  gave  it  me. 

Ah !  well  do  I  remember  those 
Whose  names  these  records  bear  ; 

Who  round  the  hearth-stone  used  to  close 
After  the  evening  prayer, 


86  MY  MOTHER'S  BIBLE. 

And  speak  of  what  these  pages  said, 
In  tones  my  heart  would  thrill ! 

Though  they  are  with  the  silent  dead, 
Here  are  they  living  still ! 

My  father  read  this  holy  book 

To  brothers,  sisters  dear  ; 
How  calm  was  my  poor  mother's  look 

Who  leaned  God's  word  to  hear ! 
Her  angel  face  —  I  see  it  yet ! 

What  vivid  memories  come  !  — 
Again  that  little  group  is  met 

Within  the  halls  of  home  ! 

Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew, 

Thy  constancy  I  Ve  tried  : 
Where  all  were  false  I  found  thee  true, 

My  counsellor  and  guide. 
The  mines  of  earth  no  treasures  give 

That  could  this  volume  buy  : 
In  teaching  me  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die. 


"THE  DOG-STAR  RAGES."  87 


"  THE  DOG-STAR  RAGES/' 

UNSEAL  the  city  fountains, 

And  let  the  waters  flow 
In  coolness  from  the  mountains 

Unto  the  plains  below. 
My  brain  is  parched  and  erring, 

The  pavement  hot  and  dry, 
And  not  a  breath  is  stirring 

Beneath  the  burning  sky. 

The  belles  have  all  departed  — 

There  does  not  linger  one ! 
Of  course  the  mart's  deserted 

By  every  mother's  son, 
Except  the  street  musician, 

And  men  of  lesser  note, 
Whose  only  earthly  mission 

Seems  but  to  toil  and  vote ! 

A  woman  —  blessings  on  her  !  — 

Beneath  my  window  see  ; 
She 's  singing  —  what  an  honor ! — 

Oh  I  "  Woodman,  spare  that  tree !" 


88  "THE  DOG-STAR  RAGES." 

Her  "man"  the  air  is  killing  — 
His  organ  7s  out  of  tune  — 

They  're  gone,  with  my  last  shilling, 
To  Florence's  saloon. 

New  York  is  most  compactly 

Of  brick  and  mortar  made  — 
Thermometer  exactly 

One  hundred  in  the  shade  I 
A  furnace  would  be  safer 

Than  this  my  letter-room, 
Where  gleams  the  sun,  a  wafer 

About  to  seal  my  doom. 

The  town  looks  like  an  ogre, 

The  country  like  a  bride  ; 
Wealth  hies  to  Saratoga, 

And  Worth  to  Sunny-side. 
While  Fashion  seeks  the  islands 

Encircled  by  the  sea, 
Taste  finds  the  Hudson  Highlands 

More  beautiful  and  free. 

The  omnibuses  rumble 

Along  their  cobbled  way  — 

The  "twelve  inside"  more  humble 
Than  he  who  takes  the  pay  : 


"THE  DOG-STAR  RAGES."  89 

From  morn  till  midnight  stealing, 

His  horses  come  and  go — • 
The  only  creatures  feeling 

The  "  luxury  of  wo  !" 

We  editors  of  papers, 

Who  coin  our  brains  for  bread 
By  solitary  tapers 

While  others  doze  in  bed, 
Have  tasks  as  sad  and  lonely, 

However  right  or  wrong, 
But  with  this  difference  only, 

The  horses  rest  at  night. 

From  twelve  till  nearly  fifty 

I  Ve  toiled  and  idled  not, 
And,  though  accounted  thrifty, 
*•  I  *m  scarcely  worth  a  groat ; 
However,  I  inherit 

What  few  have  ever  gained  — 
A  bright  and  cheerful  spirit 

That  never  has  complained. 

A  stillness  and  a  sadness 

Pervade  the  City  Hall, 
And  speculating  madness 

Has  left  the  street  of  Wall 


90  "THE  DOG-STAR  RAGES." 

The  Union  Square  looks  really 
Both  desolate  and  dark, 

And  that 's  the  case,  or  nearly, 
From  Battery  to  Park. 

Had  I  a  yacht,  like  Miller, 

That  skimmer  of  the  seas —  . 
A  wheel  rigged  on  a  tiller, 

And  a  fresh  gunwale  breeze, 
A  crew  of  friends  well  chosen, 

And  all  a-taunto,  I 
Would  sail  for  regions  frozen  — 

I  'd  rather  freeze  than  fry. 

Oh,  this  confounded  weather ! 

(As  some  one  sung  or  said,) 
My  pen,  though  but  a  feather, 

Is  heavier  than  lead  ; 
At  every  pore  I  'm  oosing  — 

(I'm  "caving  in'7  to-day)  — 
My  plumptitude  I  'm  losing, 

And  dripping  fast  away. 

I  'm  weeping  like  the  willow 
That  droops  in  leaf  and  bough - 

Let  Croton's  sparkling  billow 
Flow  through  the  city  now  ; 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    MOHAWK.  91 

And,  as  becomes  her  station, 
The  muse  will  close  her  prayer  : 

God  save  the  Corporation ! 
Long  live  the  valiant  Mayor  ! 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  MOHAWK. 

IN  the  days  that  are  gone,  by  this  sweet-flowing 

water, 

Two  lovers  reclined  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  ; 
She  was  the  mountain-king's  rosy -lipped  daughter, 
The  brave  warrior-chief  of  the  valley  was  he. 
Then  all  things  around  them,  below  and  above, 
Were  basking  as  now  in  the  sunshine  of  love  — 
In  the  days  that  are  gone,  by  this  sweet-flow 
ing  stream. 

In  the  days  that  are  gone,  they  were  laid  'neath 

the  willow, 
The   maid  in  her  beauty,  the   youth  in  his 

pride  ; 
Both  slain  by  the  foeman  who  crossed  the  dark 

billow, 

And  stole  the  broad  lands  where  their  chil 
dren  reside  : 


92  THE    BALL-ROOM    BELLE. 

Whose  fathers,  when  dying,  in  fear  looked  above, 
And  trembled  to  think  of  that  chief  and  his 

love, 

In  the  days  that  are  gone,  by  this  sweet  flow 
ing  stream. 


THE  BALL-ROOM  BELLE. 

(MUSIC  BY  HORN.) 

THE  moon  and  all  her  starry  train 

Were  fading  from  the  morning  sky, 
When  home  the  ball-room  belle  again 
Returned,  with  throbbing  pulse  and  brain, 
Flushed  cheek  and  tearful  eye. 

The  plume  that  danced  above  her  brow, 

The  gem  that  sparkled  in  her  zone, 
The  scarf  of  spangled  leaf  and  bough, 
Were  laid  aside  —  they  mocked  her  now, 
When  desolate  and  lone. 

That  night  how  many  hearts  she  won  ! 

The  reigning  belle,  she  could  not  stir, 
But,  like  the  planets  round  the  sun, 
Her  suitors  followed  —  all  but  one  — 

One  all  the  world. to  her  ! 


WE    WERE    BOYS    TOGETHER.  93 

And  she  had  lost  him !  —  Marvel  not 
That  lady's  eyes  with  tears  were  wet ! 

Though  love  by  man  is  soon  forgot, 

It  never  yet  was  woman's  lot 
To  love  and  to  forget. 


WE  WERE  BOYS  TOGETHER. 

(MUSIC   BY  KTTSSELL.) 

WE  were  boys  together, 

And  never  can  forget 
The  school-house  near  the  heather, 

In  childhood  where  we  met ; 
The  humble  home  to  memory  dear, 

Its  sorrows  and  its  joys  ; 
Where  woke  the  transient  smile  or  tear, 

When  you  and  I  were  boys. 

We  were  youths  together, 

And  castles  built  in  air, 
Your  heart  was  like  a  feather, 

And  mine  weighed  down  with  care  ; 
To  you  came  wealth  with  manhood's  prime, 

To  me  it  brought  alloys  — 
Foreshadowed  in  the  primrose  time, 

When  you  and  I  were  boys. 


94  OH,    BOATMAN,    HASTE  ! 

We're  old  men  together  — 

The  friends  we  loved  of  yore, 
With  leaves  of  autumn  weather, 

Are  gone  for  evermore. 
How  blest  to  age  the  impulse  given, 

The  hope  time  ne'er  destroys  — 
Which  led  our  thoughts  from  earth  to  heaven, 

When  you  and  I  were  boys  ! 


OH,  BOATMAN,  HASTE ! 

(MUSIC   BY   BALFE.) 
TWILIGHT. 

OH,  boatman,  haste  !  — The  twilight  hour 

Is  closing  gently  o'er  the  lea  ! 
The  sun,  whose  setting  shuts  the  flower. 
Has  looked  his  last  upon  the  sea ! 

Row,  then,  boatman,  row ! 

Row,  then,  boatman,  row ! 
Row  !  — aha  !  —  we  Ve  moon  and  star ! 
And  our  skiff  with  the  stream  is  flowing. 

Heigh-ho  !  — ah  !  —  heigh-ho  !  — 

Echo  responds  to  my  sad  heigh-ho ! 


OH,    BOATMAN,    HASTE  !  95 

MIDNIGHT. 

Oh,  boatman  haste!  —The  sentry  calls 

The  midnight  hour  on  yonder  shore, 
And  silvery  sweet  the  echo  falls 

As  music  dripping  from  the  oar ! 

Row,  then,  boatman,  row ! 

Row,  then,  boatman,  row  I 
Row !  —  afar  fade  moon  and  star ! 
While  our  skiff  with  the  stream  is  flowing  ! 

Heigh-ho  !  —  ah !  —  heigh-ho  !  — 

Echo  responds  to  my  sad  heigh-ho. 


DAWN. 


Oh,  boatman  haste  !  —  The  morning  beam 

Glides  through  the  fleecy  clouds  above  : 
So  breaks  on  life's  dark,  murmuring  stream, 
The  rosy  dawn  of  woman's  love ! 

Row,  then,  boatman  row  ! 

Row,  then,  boatman,  row  ! 
Row !  —  T  is  day !  —  away  —  away ! 
To  land  with  the  stream  we  are  flowing ! 

Heigh-ho !  —  dear  one  —  ho ! 

Beauty  responds  to  my  glad  heigh-ho! 


96  FUNERAL    HYMN. 


FUNERAL  HYMN. 

"  MAN  dieth  and  wasteth  away, 

And  where  is  he  ?"  —  Hark !  from  the  skies 
I  hear  a  voice  answer  and  say, 

"  The  spirit  of  man  never  dies  : 
His  body,  which  came  from  the  earth, 

Must  mingle  again  with  the  sod  ; 
But  his  soul,  which  in  heaven  had  birth, 

Returns  to  the  bosom  of  God." 

No  terror  has  death,  or  the  grave, 

To  those  who  believe  in  the  Lord — 
We  know  the  Redeemer  can  save, 

And  lean  on  the  faith  of  his  word; 
While  ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust 

We  give  unto  dust,  in  our  gloom, 
The  light  of  salvation,  we  trust, 

Is  hung  like  a  lamp  in  the  tomb. 

The  sky  will  be  burnt  as  a  scroll — 

The  earth,  wrapped  in  flames,  will  expire; 

But,  freed  from  all  shackles,  the  soul 
Will  rise  in  the  midst  of  the  fire. 


O'ER  THE   MOUNTAINS.  97 

Then,  brothers,  mourn  not  for  the  dead, 
Who  rest  from  their  labors,  forgiven  ; 

Learn  this  from  your  Bible  instead, 
The  grave  is  the  gateway  to  heaven. 

0  Lord  God  Almighty  !  to  Thee 

We  turn  as  our  solace  above  ; 
The  waters  may  fail  from  the  sea, 

But  not  from  thy  fountains  of  love  : 
Oh,  teach  us  Thy  will  to  obey, 

And  sing  with  one  heart  and  accord, 
"He  gave  and  He  taketh  away, 

And  praised  be  the  name  of  the  Lord  !" 


O'ER  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

SOME  spirit  wafts  our  mountain  lay  - 

II ili  ho !  boys,  hili  ho ! 
To  distant  groves  and  glens  away ! 

Hili  ho !  boys,  hili  ho ! 
E'en  so  the  tide  of  empire  flows  — 

Ho  !  boys,  hili  ho  ! 
Rejoicing  as  it  westward  goes ! 

Ho  !  boys,  hili  ho ! 
To  refresh  our  weary  way 

Gush  the  crystal  fountains, 
As  a  pilgrim  band  we  stray 
Cheerly  o'er  the  mountains. 
7 


98  WOMAN. 

The  woodland  rings  with  song  and  shout ! 

Hili  ho !  boys,  hili  ho  ! 
As  though  a  fairy  hunt  were  out ! 
Hili  ho !  boys,  hili  ho  ! 
E'en  so  the  voice  of  woman  cheers  — • 

Ho  !  boys,  hili  ho ! 
The  hearts  of  hardy  mountaineers  ! 
JJP&  Ho !  boys,  hili  ho ! 

Like  the  glow  of  northern  skies 

Mirrored  in  the  fountains, 
Beams  the  love-light  of  fond  eyes, 
As  we  cross  the  mountains. 


WOMAN. 

AH,  woman  !  —  in  this  world  of  ours, 

What  boon  can  be  compared  to  thee  ?  — 

How  slow  would  drag  life's  weary  hours, 

Though  man's  proud  brow  were  bound  with  flowers, 
And  his  the  wealth  of  land  and  sea, 

If  destined  to  exist  alone, 
'  And  ne'er  call  woman's  heart  his  own ! 

My  mother !  —  At  that  holy  name, 

Within  my  bosom  there's  a  gush 
'Of  feeling,  which  no  time  can  tame  — 
A  feeling,  which,  for  years  of  fame, 

I  would  not,  could  not,  crush ! 


ROSABEL.  99 

And  sisters !  —  ye  are  dear  as  life  ; 
But  when  I  look  upon  my  wife, 

My  heart-blood  gives  a  sudden  rush, 
And  all  my  fond  affections  blend 
In  mother  —  sisters  —  wife  and  friend  ! 

Yes,  woman's  love  is  free  from  guile, 

And  pure  as  bright  Aurora's  ray  ; 
The  heart  will  melt  before  her  smile, 

And  base-born  passions  fade  away ! 
Were  I  the  monarch  of  the  earth, 

Or  master  of  the  swelling  sea, 
I  would  not  estimate  their  worth, 

Dear  woman,  half  the  price  of  thee. 


ROSABEL. 

I  MISS  thee  from  my  side,  beloved, 

I  fliiss  thee  from  my  side  ; 
And  wearily  and  drearily 

Fltfws  Time's  resistless  tide. 
The  world,  and  all  its  fleeting  joys, 

To  me  are  worse  than  vain, 
Until  I  clasp  thee  to  my  heart, 

Beloved  one,  again. 


100  ROSABEL. 

The  wild  wood  and  the  forest-path, 

We  used  to  thread  of  yore, 
What  bird -and  bee  have  flown  with  thee; 

And  gone  for  ever  more ! 
There  is  no  music  in  the  grove, 

No  echo  on  the  hill ; 
But  melancholy  boughs  are  there  — 

And  hushed  the  whip-poor-will. 


I  miss  thee  in  the  town,  beloved, 

I  miss  thee  in  the  town  ; 
From  morn  I  grieve  till  dewy  eve 

Spreads  wide  its  mantle  brown. 
My  spirit's  wings,  that  once  could  soar 

In  Fancy's  world  of  air, 
Are  crushed  and  beaten  to  the  ground 

By  life-corroding  care. 


No  more  I  hear  thy  thrilling  voice, 

Nor  see  thy  winning  face  ; 
That  once  would  gleam  like  morning's  beam, 

In  mental  pride  and  grace  : 
Thy  form  of  matchless  symmetry, 

In  sweet  perfection  cast  — 
Is  now  the  star  of  memory 

That  fades  not  with  the  past. 


THE   TYRANT   SWAY.  101 

I  miss  thee  everywhere,  beloved, 

I  miss  thee  everywhere  ; 
Both  night  and  day  wear  dull  away, 

And  leave  me  in  despair. 
The  banquet-hall,  the  play,  the  ball, 

And  childhood's  sportive  glee, 
Have  lost  their  spell  for  me,  beloved, 

My  soul  is  full  of  thee ! 

Has  Rosabel  forgotten  me, 

And  love  I  now  in  vain  ? 
If  that  be  so,  my  heart  can  know 

No  rest  on  earth  again. 
A  sad  and  weary  lot  is  mine, 

To  love  and  be  forgot ; 
A  sad  and  weary  lot,  beloved  — 

A  sad  and  weary  lot ! 


THE  TYRANT  SWAY. 

THE  heart  that  owns  the  tyrant's  sway, 
Whatever  its  hopes  may  be, 

Is  like  a  bark  that  drifts  away 
Upon  a  shoreless  sea ! 

No  compass  left  to  guide  her  on, 

Upon  the  surge  she's  tempest-torn  — 
And  such  is  life  to  me ! 


102  A    HERO    OF   THE    REVOLUTION. 

And  what  is  life  when  love  is  fled  ? 

The  world,  unshared  by  thee  ? 
Fd  rather  slumber  with  the  dead, 

Than  such  a  waif  to  be  ! 
The  bark  that  by  no  compass  steers 
Is  lost,  which  way  soe'er  she  veers  — 

And  such  is  life  to  me ! 


A  HERO  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

LET  not  a  tear  be  shed ! 

Of  grief  give  not  a  token, 
Although  the  silver  thread 

And  golden  bowl  be  broken ! 
A  warrior  lived  —  a  Christian  died  ! 
Sorrow's  forgotten  in  our  pride  ! 

Go,  bring  his  battle-blade, 

His  helmet  and  his  plume ! 
And  be  his  trophies  laid 

Beside  him  in  the  tomb, 
Where  files  of  time-marked  veterans  come 
With  martial  tramp  and  muffled  drum ! 

Give  to  the  earth  his  frame, 
To  moulder  and  decay  j 


RHYME    AND    REASON.  103 

But  not  his  deathless  name  — 

That  can  not  pass  away  ! 
In  youth,  in  manhood,  and  in  age, 
He  dignified  his  country's  page ! 

Green  be  the  willow-bough 

Above  the  swelling  mound, 
Where  sleeps  the  hero  now 

In  consecrated  ground  : 
Thy  epitaph,  0  Delavan ! 
God's  noblest  work  —  an  honest  man! 


RHYME  AND  REASON. 

AN   APOLOGUE. 

Two  children  of  the  olden  time, 

In  Flora's  primrose  season, 
Were  born.     The  name  of  one  was  Rhyme, 

That  of  the  other  Reason. 
And  both  were  beautiful  and  fair, 
And  pure  as  mountain  stream  and  air. 

As  the  boys  together  grew, 

Happy  fled  their  hours  — 
Grief  or  care  they  never  knew 

In  the  Paphian  bowers. 


104  RHYME    AND    REASON. 

See  them  roaming,  hand  in  hand, 
The  pride  of  all  the  choral  band  ! 

Music  with  harp  of  golden  strings, 
Love  with  bow  and  quiver, 

Airy  sprites  on  radiant  wings, 
Nymphs  of  wood  and  river, 

Joined  the  Muses'  constant  song, 

As  Rhyme  and  Reason  passed  along. 

But  the  scene  was  changed — the  boys 

Left  their  native  soil  — 
Rhyme's  pursuit  was  idle  joys, 

Reason's  manly  toil : 
Soon  Rhyme  was  starving  in  a  ditch, 
While  Reason  grew  exceeding  rich. 

Since  the  dark  and  fatal  hour, 
When  the  brothers  parted, 

Reason  has  had  wealth  and  power — 
Rhyme's  poor  and  broken-hearted  ! 

And  now,  or  bright  or  stormy  weather, 

They  twain  are  seldom  seen  together. 


STARLIGHT   RECOLLECTIONS.  105 


STARLIGHT  RECOLLECTIONS. 

'TWAS  night.     Near  the  murmuring  Saone, 

We  met  with  no  witnesses  by, 
But  such  as  resplendently  shone 

In  the  blue-tinted  vault  of  the  sky  : 
Your  head  on  my  bosom  was  laid, 

As  you  said  you  would  ever  be  mine  ; 
And  I  promised  to  love,  dearest  maid, 

And  worship  alone  at  your  shrine. 

Your  love  on  my  heart  gently  fell 

As  the  dew  on  the  flowers  at  eve, 
Whose  bosoms  with  gratitude  swell, 

A  blessing  to  give  and  receive  : 
And  I  knew  by  the  glow  on  your  cheek, 

And  the  rapture  you  could  not  control, 
No  power  had  language  to  speak 

The  faith  or  content  of  your  soul. 

I  love  you  as  none  ever  loved  — 
As  the  steel  to  the  star  I  am  true  ; 

And  I,  dearest  maiden,  have  proved 
That  none  ever  loved  me  but  you. 


106  WEARIES   MY   LOVE  ? 

Till  memory  loses  her  power, 

Or  the  sands  of  existence  have  run, 

I'll  remember  the  star-lighted  hour 
That  mingled  two  hearts  into  one. 


WEARIES  MY  LOVE? 

WEARIES  my  love  of  my  letters  ? 

Does  she  my  silence  command  ? 
Sunders  she  Love's  rosy  fetters 

As  though  they  were  woven  of  sand  ? 
Tires  she  too  of  each  token 

Indited  with  many  a  sigh  ? 
Are  all  her  promises  broken  ? 

And  must  I  love  on  till  I  die  ? 

Thinks  my  dear  love  that  I  blame  her 

With  what  was  a  burden  to  part  ? 
Ah,  no  ! — with  affection  Pll  name  her 

While  lingers  a  pulse  in  my  heart. 
Although  she  has  clouded  with  sadness, 

And  blighted  the  bloom  of  my  years, 
I  love  her  still,  even  to  madness, 

And  bless  her  through  showers  of  tears  ! 

My  pen  I  have  laid  down  in  sorrow, 
The  songs  of  my  lute  I  forego  j 


FARE    THEE    WELL,    LOYE.  107 

From  neither  assistance  I'll  borrow 

To  utter  my  heart-seated  wo ! 
But  peace  to  her  bosom,  wherever 

Her  thoughts  or  her  footsteps  may  stray : 
Memento  of  mine  again  never 

Will  shadow  the  light  of  her  way ! 


FARE  THEE  WELL,  LOVE. 

FARE  thee  well,  love  !  — We  must  sever  I 
Not  for  years,  love  ;  but  for  ever ! 
We  must  meet  no  more  —  or  only 
Meet  as  strangers  —  sad  and  lonely. 
Fare  thee  well  ! 

Fare  thee  well,  love !  —  How  I  languish 
For  the  cause  of  all  my  anguish ! 
None  have  ever  met  and  parted 
So  forlorn  and  broken-hearted. 
Fare  thee  well ! 

Fare  thee  well,  love !  —  Till  I  perish 
All  my  truth  for  thee  I  '11  cherish  ; 
And,  when  thou  my  requiem  nearest, 
Know  till  death  I  loved  thee,  dearest. 
Fare  thee  well ! 


108  THOU   HAST   WOVEN   THE    SPELL. 


THOU  HAST  WOVEN  THE  SPELL. 

THOU  hast  woven  the  spell  that  hath  bound  me, 

Through  all  the  sad  changes  of  years  ; 
And  the  smiles  that  I  wore  when  I  found  thee, 

Have  faded  and  melted  in  tears ! 
Like  the  poor,  wounded  fawn  from  the  mountain. 

That  seeks  out  the  clear  silver  tide, 
I  have  lingered  in  vain  at  the  fountain 

Of  hope  —  with  a  shaft  in  my  side ! 


Thou  hast  taught  me  that  Love's  rosy  fetters 

A  pang  from  the  thorns  may  impart  ; 
That  the  coinage  of  vows  and  of  letters 

Comes  not  from  the  mint  of  the  heart. 
Like  the  lone  bird  that  nutters  her  pinion, 

And  warbles  in  bondage  her  strain, 
I  have  struggled  to  fly  thy  dominion, 

But  find  that  the  struggle  is  vain ! 


BESSY   BELL. 


109 


B.ESSY  BELL. 

WHEN  life  looks  drear  and  lonely,  love, 

And  pleasant  fancies  flee, 
Then  will  the  Muses  only,  love, 

Bestow  a  thought  on  me ! 
Mine  is  a  harp  which  Pleasure,  love, 

To  waken  strives  in  vain  ; 
To  Joy's  entrancing  measure,  love, 

It  ne'er  can  thrill  again  !  — 

Why  mock  me,  Bessy  Bell  ? 

Oh,  do  not  ask  me  ever,  love, 

For  rapture-woven  rhymes  ; 
For  vain  is  each  endeavor,  love, 

To  sound  Mirth's  play-bell  chimes ! 
Yet  still  believe  me,  dearest  love, 

Though  sad  my  song  may  be, 
This  heart  still  dotes  sincerest,  love, 

And  grateful  turns  to  thee  — 

My  once  fond  Bessy  Bell ! 

Those  eyes  still  rest  upon  me,  love ! 

I  feel  their  magic  spell ! 
With  that  same  look  you  won  me,  love, 

Fair,  gentle  Bessy  Bell ! 


110  THE   DAY   IS    NOW   DAWNING. 

My  doom  you've  idly  spoken,  love, 

You  never  can  be  mine ! 
But  though  my  heart  is  broken,  love, 

Still,  Bessy,  it  is  thine  !   • 

Adieu,  false  Bessy  Bell ! 


THE  DAY  IS  NOW  DAWNING. 

WILLIAM. 

THE  day  is  now  dawning,  love, 

Fled  is  the  night  — 
I  go  like  the  morning,  love, 

Cheerful  and  bright. 
Then  adieu,  dearest  Ellen  : 

When  evening  is  near, 
I  '11  visit  thy  dwelling, 

For  true  love  is  here. 

ELLEN. 

Oh,  come  where  the  fountain,  love, 

Tranquilly  flows  ; 
Beneath  the  green  mountain,  love, 

Seek  for  repose  ; 
There  the  days  of  our  childhood, 

In  love's  golden  beam, 
'Mong  the  blue-bells  and  wildwood, 

Passed  on  like  a  dream. 


THE   DAY   IS    NOW   DAWNING.  Ill 

WILLIAM. 

Oh,  linger  awhile,  love ! 

ELLEN. 

I  must  away. 

WILLIAM. 

Oh,  grant  me  thy  smile,  love, 
'Tis  Hope's  cheering  ray  — 
With  evening  expect  me. 

.-•  'i'i  ,,i>j\?<nom  odl  s>J»;  -t>  < 

ELLEN. 

To  the  moment  be  true, 

And  may  angels  protect  thee  — 

BOTH. 

Sweet  Ellen,  adieu ! 
Dear  William,  adieu ! 


112  WHEN   OTHER   FRIENDS. 


WHEN  OTHER  FRIENDS. 

WHEN  other  friends  are  round  thee, 

And  other  hearts  are  thine  — 
When  other  bays  have  crowned  thee, 

More  fresh  and  green  than  mine  — 
Then  think  how  sad  and  lonely 

This  doating  heart  will  be, 
Which,  while  it  beats,  beats  only, 

Beloved  one,  for  thee ! 


Yet  do  not  think  I  doubt  thee, 

I  know  thy  truth  remains  ; 
I  would  not  live  without  thee, 

For  all  the  world  contains. 
Thou  art  the  star  that  guides  me 

Along  life's  troubled  sea  ; 
And  whatever  fate  betides  me, 

This  heart  still  turns  to  thee. 


SILENT   GRIEF.  113 


SILENT  GRIEF. 

WHERE  is  now  my  peace  of  mind  ? 

Gone,  alas  !  for  evermore  : 
Turn  where'er  I  may,  I  find 

Thorns  where  roses  bloomed  before ! 
O'er  the  green-fields  of  my  soul, 

Where  the  springs  of  joy  were  found, 
Now  the  clouds  of  sorrow  roll, 

Shading  all  the  prospect  round ! 


Do  I  merit  pangs  like  these, 

That  have  cleft  my  heart  in  twain  ? 
Must  I,  to  the  very  lees, 

Drain  thy  bitter  chalice,  Pain  ? 
Silent  grief  all  grief  excels  ; 

Life  and  it  together  part  — 
Like  a  restless  worm  it  dwells 

Deep  within  the  human  heart ! 
9 


114  LOVE    THEE,    DEAREST? 

TWILIGHT. 

LOVE  THEE,  DEAREST  7 

LOVE  tliee,  dearest  ? —  Hear  me.  —  Never 

Will  my  fond  vows  be  forgot ! 
May  I  perish,  and  for  ever, 

When,  dear  maid,  I  love  thee  not ! 
Turn  not  from  me,  dearest !  —  Listen ! 

Banish  all  thy  doubts  and  fears ! 
Let  thine  eyes  with  transport  glisten ! 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  tears  ? 


Dry  them,  dearest !  — -  Ah,  believe  me, 

Love's  bright  flame  is  burning  still ! 
Though  the  hollow  world  deceive  thee, 

Here 's  a  heart  that  never  will ! 
Dost  thou  smile  ?  —  A  cloud  of  sorrow 

Breaks  before  Joy's  rising  sun  ! 
Wilt  thou  give  thy  hand  ?  —  To-morrow, 

Hymen,  dearest,  makes  us  one  ! 


115  I   LOVE   THE    NIGHT. 


I  LOVE  THE  NIGHT. 

I  LOVE  the  night  when  the  moon  streams  bright 

On  flowers  that  drink  the  dew  — 
When  cascades  shout  as  the  stars  peep  out, 

From  boundless  fields  of  blue  ; 
But  dearer  far  than  moon  or  star, 

Or  flowers  of  gaudy  hue, 
Or  murmuring  trills  of  mountain-rills, 

I  love,  I  love,  love  —  you ! 


I  love  to  stray  at  the  close  of  day, 

Through  groves  of  forest-trees, 
When  gushing  notes  from  song-birds'  throats 

Are  vocal  in  the  breeze. 
I  love  the  night  —  the  glorious  night  — 

When  hearts  beat  warm  and  true  ; 
But  far  above  the  night,  I  love, 

I  love,  I  love,  love  —  you ! 


116 


THE   MINIATURE. 


THE  MINIATURE. 

WILLIAM  was  holding  in  his  hand 

The  likeness  of  his  wife  ! 
Fresh,  as  if  touched  by  fairy  wand; 

With  beauty,  grace,  and  life. 
He  almost  thought  it  spoke  :  — he  gazed 

Upon  the  bauble  still, 
Absorbed,  delighted,  and  amazed, 

To  view  the  artist's  skill. 


"  This  picture  is  yourself,  dear  Jane  — 

;Tis  drawn  to  nature  true  : 
I  've  kissed  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

It  is  so  much  like  you." 
"  And  has  it  kissed  you  back,  my  dear  ?" 

"Why— -no  — my  love,"  said  he. 
"  Then,  William,  it  is  very  clear 

'Tis  not  at  all  like  me!" 


THE   RETORT.  117 


THE  KETORT. 

OLD  Nick,  who  taught  the  village-school, 
Wedded  a  maid  of  homespun  habit ; 

He  was  as  stubborn  as  a  mule, 
She  was  as  playful  as  a  rabbit. 

Poor  Jane  had  scarce  become  a  wife, 
Before  her  husband  sought  to  make  her 

The  pink  of  country-polished  life, 
And  prim  and  formal  as  a  quaker. 

One  day  the  tutor  went  abroad, 

And  simple  Jenny  sadly  missed  him  ; 

When  he  returned,  behind  her  lord 
She  slyly  stole,  and  fondly  kissed  him  ! 

The  husband's  anger  rose !  — and  red 
And  white  his  face  alternate  grew  I 

11  Less  freedom,  ma'am  !"  —  Jane  sighed  and  said, 
"  Oh,  dear !  I  didrtt  know  'twas  you!" 


318  LINES    ON   A   POET. 


LINES  ON  A  POET. 

How  sweet  the  cadence  of  his  lyre  ! 

What  melody  of  words  ! 
They  strike  a  pulse  within  the  heart 

Like  songs  of  forest-birds, 
Or  tinkling  of  the  shepherd's  bell 

Among  the  mountain-herds. 


His  mind's  a  cultivated  garden, 
Where  Nature's  hand  has  sown 

The  flower-seeds  of  poesy  — 
And  they  have  freshly  grown, 

Imbued  with  beauty  and  perfume 
To  other  plants  unknown. 

A  bright  career's  before  him  — 
All  tongues  pronounce  his  praise  ; 

All  hearts  his  inspiration  feel, 
And  will  in  after-days  ; 

For  genius  breathes  in  every  line 
Of  his  soul-thrilling  lays. 


THE    BACCHANAL.  119 


A  nameless  grace  is  round  him  — 
A  something,  too  refined 

To  be  described,  yet  must  be  felt 
By  all  of  human  kind  — 

An  emanation  of  the  soul, 
That  can  not  be  defined. 


Then  blessings  on  the  minstrel  — 
His  faults  let  others  scan  : 

There  may  be  spots  upon  the  sun, 
Which  those  may  view  who  can ; 

I  see  them  not — yet  know  him  well 

A  POET  AND  A  MAN. 


THE  BACCHANAL. 

BESIDE  a  cottage-door, 

Sung  Ella  at  her  wheel ; 
Ruthven  rode  o'er  the  moor, 

Down  at  her  feet  to  kneel : 
A  spotted  palfrey  gay 

Came  ambling  at  his  side, 
To  bear  the  maid  away 

As  his  affianced  bride. 


120  THE    BACCHANAL. 

A  high-born  noble  he, 

Of  stately  halls  secure  ; 
A  low-born  peasant  she, 

Of  parentage  obscure. 
How  soft  the  honeyed  words 

He  breathes  into  her  ears !  — 
The  melody  of  birds  ! 

The  music  of  the  spheres  ! 


With  love  her  bosom  swells, 

Which  she  would  fain  conceal  - 
Her  eyes,  like  crystal  wells, 

Its  hidden  depths  reveal. 
While  liquid  diamonds  drip 

From  feeling's  fountain  warm, 
Flutters  her  scarlet  lip  — 

A  rose-leaf  in  a  storm  ! 


As  from  an  April  sky 

The  rain-clouds  flit  away, 
So  from  the  maiden's  eye 

Vanished  the  falling  spray, 
Which  lingered  but  awhile 

Her  dimpled  cheek  upon  — 
Then  melted  in  her  smile, 

Like  vapor  in  the  sun. 


THE    BACCHANAL.  121 

The  maid  is  all  his  own  ! 

She  trusts  his  plighted  word, 
And,  lightly  on  the  roan, 

She  springs  beside  her  lord  : 
She  leaves  her  father's  cot, 

She  turns  her  from  the  door — 
That  green  and  holy  spot 

Which  she  will  see  no  more  ! 


They  hied  to  distant  lands, 

That  lord  and  peasant-rnaid  : 
The  church  ne'er  joined  their  hands, 

For  Ella  was  betrayed  I 
Torn  from  her  native  bower, 

That  modest  rose  of  May, 
Drooped,  in  his  stately  tower, 

And  passed  from  earth  away. 

They  laid  her  in  the  ground, 

And  Ella  was  forgot  — 
Dead  was  her  father  found 

In  his  deserted  cot. 
But  Ruthven —  what  of  him  ? 

He  ran  the  story  o'er, 
And,  filling  to  the  brim, 

He  thought  of  it  no  more  ! 


122  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO 


TWENTY  YEAKS  AGO. 

(MH8IO  BY   AUSTIN  PHILLIPS.) 

'TWAS  in  the  flush  of  summer-time, 

Some  twenty  years  or  more, 
When  Ernest  lost  his  way,  and  crossed 

The  threshold  of  our  door. 
I'll  ne'er  forget  his  locks  of  jet, 

His  brow  of  Alpine  snow, 
His  manly  grace  of  form  and  face, 

Some  twenty  years  ago. 

The  hand  he  asked  I  freely  gave  — 

Mine  was  a  happy  lot, 
In  all  my  pride  to  be  his  bride 

Within  my  father's  cot. 
The  faith  he  spoke  he  never  broke  : 

His  faithful  heart  I  know  ; 
And  well  I  vow  I  love  him  now 

As  twenty  years  ago. 


NATIONAL   ANTHEM.  123 


NATIONAL  ANTHEM. 

FREEDOM  spreads  her  downy  wings 
Over  all  created  things  ; 
Glory  to  the  King  of  kings, 

Bend  low  to  Him  the  knee  ! 
Bring  the  heart  before  His  throne  — 
Worship  Him  and  Him  alone  !  — 
He  ?s  the  only  King  we  own  — 

And  He  has  made  us  free ! 

The  holiest  spot  a  smiling  sun 
E'er  shed  his  genial  rays  upon, 
Is  that  which  gave  a  Washington 

The  drooping  world  to  cheer ! 
Sound  the  clarion-peals  of  fame ! 
Ye  who  bear  Columbia's  name  !  — 
With  existence  freedom  came  — 

It  is  man's  birthright  here  ! 

Heirs  of  an  immortal  sire, 
Let  his  deeds  your  hearts  inspire  ; 
Weave  the  strain  and  wake  the  lyre 
Where  your  proud  altars  stand  I 


124  I    LOVE   THEE    STILL. 

Hail  with  pride  and  loud  hurrahs, 

Streaming  from  a  thousand  spars, 

'Freedom's  rainbow-flag  of  stars  — 

The  symbol  of  our  land ! 


I  LOVE   THEE   STILL. 

I  NEVER  have  been  false  to  thee  !  -- 

The  heart  I  gave  thee  still  is  thine  ; 
Though  thou  hast  been  untrue  to  me, 

And  I  no  more  may  call  thee  mine ! 
I  've  loved,  as  woman  ever  loves, 

With  constant  soul  in  good  or  ill : 
Thou  7st  proved  as  man  too  often  proves, 

A  rover — but  I  love  thee  still! 


Yet  think  not  that  my  spirit  stoops 

To  bind  thee  captive  in  my  train  !  — 
Love's  not  a  flower  at  sunset  droops, 

But  smiles  when  comes  her  god  again ! 
Thy  words,  which  fall  unheeded  now, 

Could  once  my  heart-strings  madly  thrill ! 
ov^H  golden  chain  and  burning  vow 

Are  broken  —  but  I  love  thee  still ! 


LOOK   FROM   THY   LATTICE,    LOVE.  125 

Once  what  a  heaven  of  bliss  was  ours, 

When  love  dispelled  the  clouds  of  care, 
And  time  went  by  with  birds  and  flowers, 

While  song  and  incense  filled  the  air ! 
The  past  is  mine  —  the  present  thine 

Should  thoughts  of  me  thy  future  fill, 
Think  what  a  destiny  is  mine, 

To  lose  —  but  love  thee,  false  one,  still  ! 


LOOK  FROM  THY  LATTICE,  LOVE. 

LOOK  from  thy  lattice,  love  — 

Listen  to  me  ! 
The  cool,  balmy  breeze 

Is  abroad  on  the  sea ! 
The  moon,  like  a  queen, 

Roams  her  realms  above, 
And  naught  is  awake 

But  the  spirit  of  love. 
Ere  morn's  golden  light 

Tips  the  hills  with  its  ray, 
Away  o'er  the  waters  — 

Away  and  away ! 
Then  look  from  thy  lattice,  love 

Listen  to  me. 
While  the  moon  lights  the  sky, 

And  the  breeze  curls  the  sea  ! 


126  SHE   LOVED    HIM. 

Look  from  thy  lattice,  love  — 

Listen  to  me ! 
In  the  voyage  of  life, 

Love  our  pilot  will  be ! 
He  11  sit  at  the  helm 

Wherever  we  rove, 
And  steer  by  the  load-star 

He  kindled  above ! 
His  gem-girdled  shallop 

Will  cut  the  bright  spray, 
Or  skim,  like  a  bird, 

O'er  the  waters  away  ! 
Then  look  from  thy  lattice,  love  - 

Listen  to  me, 
While  the  moon  lights  the  sky, 

And  the  breeze  curls  the  sea ! 


SHE  LOVED   HIM. 

SHE  loved  him— but  she  heeded  not  — 

Her  heart  had  only  room  for  pride  : 
All  other  feelings  were  forgot, 

When  she  became  another's  bride. 
As  from  a  dream  she  then  awoke, 

To  realize  her  lonely  state, 
And  own  it  was  the  vow  she  broke 

That  made  her  drear  and  desolate  ! 


THE    SUITORS. 

She  loved  him  —  but  the  sland'rer  came, 

With  words  of  hate  that  all  believed  ; 
A  stain  thus  rested  on  his  name  — 

But  he  was  wronged  and  she  deceived  ; 
Ah  !  rash  the  act  that  gave  her  hand, 

That  drove  her  lover  from  her  side  — 
Who  hied  him  to  a  distant  land, 

Where,  battling  for  a  name,  he  died ! 

She  loved  him  —  and  his  memory  now 

Was  treasured  from  the  world  apart : 
The  calm  of  thought  was  on  her  brow, 

The  seeds  of  death  were  in  her  heart. 
For  all  the  world  that  thing  forlorn 

I  would  not,  could  not  be,  and  live  — 
That  casket  with  its  jewel  gone, 

A  bride  who  has  no  heart  to  give ! 


THE  SUITORS. 

WEALTH  sought  the  bower  of  Beauty, 
Dressed  like  a  modern  beau  : 

Just  then  Love,  Health,  and  Duty 
Took  up  their  hats  to  go. 

Wealth  such  a  cordial  welcome  met, 
As  made  the  others  grieve  ; 


128  ST.  AGNES'  SHRINE. 

So  Duty  shunned  the  gay  coquette, 
Love,  pouting,  took  French  leave  — 

He  did ! 
Love,  pouting,  took  French  leave  ! 

Old  Time,  the  friend  of  Duty, 

Next  called  to  see  the  fair  ; 
He  laid  his  hand  on  Beauty, 

And  left  her  in  despair. 
Wealth  vanished !  —  Last  went  rosy  Health- 

And  she  was  doomed  to  prove 
That  those  who  Duty  slight  for  Wealth, 

Can  never  hope  for  Love ! 
Ah,  no  ! 

Can  never  hope  for  Love ! 


ST.  AGNES'  SHRINE. 

WHILE  before  St.  Agnes7  shrine 

Knelt  a  true  knight's  lady-love, 
From  the  wars  of  Palestine 

Came  a  gentle  carrier-dove. 
Round  his  neck  a  silken  string 

Fastened  words  the  warrior  writ : 
At  her  call  he  stooped  his  wing, 

And  upon  her  finger  lit. 


WESTERN    REFRAIN.  129 

She,  like  one  enchanted,  pored 

O'er  the  contents  of  the  scroll  — 
For  that  lady  loved  her  lord 

With  a  pure,  devoted  soul. 
To  her  heart  her  dove  she  drew, 

While  she  traced  the  burning  line  ; 
Then  away  his  minion  flew 

Back  to  sainted  Palestine. 

To  and  fro,  from  hand  to  hand 

Came  and  went  a  carrier-dove, 
Till  throughout  the  Holy  Land 

War  resigned  his  sword  to  Love. 
Swift  her  dove,  on  wings  of  light, 

Brought  the  news  from  Palestine, 
And  the  lady  her  true  knight 

Wedded  at  St.  Agnes'  shrine. 


WESTERN  REFRAIN 

DROOP  not,  brothers ! 

As  we  go, 
O'er  the  mountains, 
Westward  ho ! 
Under  boughs  of  mistletoe, 
Log  huts  we  '11  rear, 
9 


130  WESTERN   REFRAIN. 

While  herds  of  deer  and  buffalo 

Furnish  the  cheer. 
File  o'er  the  mountains  —  steady,  boys ! 

For  game  afar 
We  hare  our  rifles  ready,  boys  !  — 

Aha! 
Throw  care  to  the  winds, 

Like  chaff,  boys !  —  ha ! 
And  join  in  the  laugh,  boys  ! — 

Hah  — hah  — hah! 

Uo;i;trj?jY/  fejjSfj  n  u 

Cheer  up,  brothers  ! 
As  we  go, 

O'er  the  mountains, 
Westward  ho ! 
Wlien  we  Ve  wood  and  prairie-land, 

Won  by  our  toil, 
We  '11  reign  like  kings  in  fairy-land, 

Lords  of  the  soil ! 
Then  westward  ho  !  in  legions,  boys  — 

Fair  Freedom's  star 
Points  to  her  sunset  regions,  boys  !  — 

Aha! 
Throw  care  to  the  winds, 

Like  chaff,  boys  !  —  ha ! 
And  join  in  the  laugh,  boys  — 

Hah  — hah  — hah! 


THE    PRAIRIE    ON    FIRE.  131 


THE  PRAIIUE  ON  FIRE. 

THE  shades  of  evening  closed  around 

The  boundless  prairies  of  the  west, 
As,  grouped  in  sadness  on  the  ground, 

A  band  of  pilgrims  leaned  to  rest : 
Upon  the  tangled  weeds  were  laid 

The  mother  and  her  youngest  born, 
Who  slept,  while  others  watched  and  prayed, 

And  thus  the  weary  night  went  on. 

Thick  darkness  shrouded  earth  and  sky  — 

When  on  the  whispering  winds  there  came 
The  Teton's  shrill  and  thrilling  cry, 

And  heaven  was  pierced  with  shafts  of  flame  ! 
The  sun  seemed  rising  through  the  haze, 

But  with  an  aspect  dread  and  dire  : 
The  very  air  appeared  to  blaze  !  — 

0  God !  the  Prairie  was  011  fire  ! 

Around  the  centre  of  the  plain 

A  belt  of  flame  retreat  denied  — 
And,  like  a  furnace,  glowed  the  train 

That  walled  them  in  on  every  side  : 


132  THE   PRAIRIE    ON   FIRE. 

And  onward  rolled  the  torrent  wild  — 

Wreathes  of  dense  smoke  obscnred  the  sky ! 

The  mother  knelt  beside  her  child, 

And  all  —  save  one  —  shrieked  out,  "  We  die !" 

"  Not  so  1"  he  cried.— "  Help  !  —  Clear  the  sedge ! 

Strip  bare  a  circle  to  the  land !" 
That  done,  he  hastened  to  its  edge, 

And  grasped  a  rifle  in  his  hand  : 
Dried  weeds  he  held  besHe  the  pan, 

Which  kindled  at  a  flash  the  mass  ! 
"  Now  fire  fight  fire  !"  he  said,  as  ran 

The  forked  flames  among  the  grass. 

On  three  sides  now  the  torrent  flew, 

But  on  the  fourth  no  more  it  raved  ! 
Then  large  and  broad  the  circle  grew, 

And  thus  the  pilgrim  band  was  saved ! 
The  flames  receded  far  and  wide  — 

The  mother  had  not  prayed  in  vain  : 
God  had  the  Teton's  arts  defied ! 

His  scythe  of  fire  had  swept  the  plain ! 


THE    EVERGREEN. 


133 


THE  EVERGREEN. 

LOVE  can  not  be  the  aloe-tree, 

Whose  bloom  but  once  is  seen  ; 
Go  search  the  grove  —  the  tree  of  love 

Is  sure  the  evergreen  : 
For  that 's  the  same,  in  leaf  or  frame, 

'Neath  cold  or  sunny  skies  ; 
You  take  the  ground  its  roots  have  bound, 

Or  it,  transplanted,  dies  1 

That  love  thus  shoots,  and  firmly  roots 

In  woman's  heart,  we  see  ; 
Through  smiles  and  tears  in  after-years 

It  grows  a  fadeless  tree. 
The  tree  of  lovej  all  trees  above, 

For  ever  may  be  seen, 
In  summer's  bloom  or  winter's  gloom, 

A  hardy  evergreen. 


134  THE   MAY-QUEEN. 


THE  MAY-QUEEN. 

LIKE  flights  of  singing-birds  went  by 
The  cheerful  hours  of  girlhood's  day, 
When,  in  my  native  bowers, 
Of  simple  buds  and  flowers 
They  wove  a  crown,  and  hailed  me  Queen  of  May ! 

Like  airy  sprites  the  lasses  came, 
Spring's  offerings  at  my  feet  to  Jay  ; 
The  crystal  from  the  fountain, 
The  green  bough  from  the  mountain, 
They  brought  to  cheer  and  shade  the  Queen  of 
May. 

Around  the  May-pole  on  the  green, 
A  fairy  ring  they  tripped  away  ; 
All  merriment  and  pleasure, 
To  chords  of  tuneful  measure 
They  bounded  by  the  happy  Queen  of  May. 


VENETIAN    SERENADE.    .  135 

Though  years  have  passed,    and  Time  has 

strown 

My  raven  locks  with  flakes  of  gray, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  hours 
Of  buds  and  blossom-showers 
When  in  girlhood  I  was  crowned  the  Queen  of 
May. 


VENETIAN  SERENADE. 


COME,  come  to  me,  love ! 

Come,  love  !  —  Arise ! 
And  shame  the  bright  stars 

With  the  light  of  thine  eyes  ; 
Look  out  from  thy  lattice  — 

Oh,  lady-bird,  hear  ! 
A  swan  on  the  water  — 

My  gondola's  near  1 

Come,  come  to  mer  love  ! 

Come,  love  I —  My  bride ! 
O'er  crystal  in  moonbeams 

We  '11  tranquilly  glide  : 
In  the  dip  of  the  oar 

A  melody  flows 
Sweet  as  the  nightingale 

Sings  to  the  rose. 


136  .  THE    WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

Come,  come  to  me,  love  I 

Come,  love  !  —  The  day 
Brings  warder  and  cloister  1 

Away,  then  —  away  1 
Oh,  haste  to  thy  lover! 

Not  yon  star  above 
Is  more  true  to  heaven 

Than  he  to  his  love  ! 


THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL. 


"  The  plaint  of  the  wailing  Whip-poor- win, 
Who  mourns  -unseen  and  c-easeless  sings 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  wo, 

Till  Morning  spreads  lier  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow." 

J.  R.  DRAKI. 


WHY  dost  thou  come  at  set  of  sun, 

Those  pensive  words  to  say  ? 
Why  whip  poor  Will  ?  —  What  has  he  done  ? 

And  who  is  Will,  I  pray  ? 

Why  come  from  yon  leaf-shaded  hill, 

A  suppliant  at  my  door  ?  — 
Why  ask  of  me  to  whip  poor  Will  ? 

And  is  Will  really  poor  ? 


THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL.  13 1 

If  poverty's  his  crime,  let  mirth 

From  out  his  heart  be  driven  : 
That  is  the  deadliest  sin  on  earth, 

And  never  is  forgiven  ! 

Art  Will  himself?  —  It  must  be  so  — 

I  learn  it  from  thy  moan, 
For  none  can  feel  another's  wo 

As  deeply  as  his  own. 

Yet  wherefore  strain  thy  tiny  throat, 

While  other  birds  repose  ? 
What  means  thy  melancholy  note  ?  — 

The  mystery  disclose ! 

Still  "  Whip  poor  Will !"  —  Art  thou  a  sprite, 

From  unknown  regions  sent 
To  wander  in  the  gloom  of  night, 

And  ask  for  punishment  ? 

Is  thine  a  conscience  sore  beset 

With  guilt  ?  —  or,  what  is  worse, 
Hast  thou  to  meet  writs,  duns,  and  debt — 

No  money  in  thy  purse ! 

If  this  be  thy  hard  fate  indeed, 

Ah  !  well  may'st  thou  repine  : 
The  sympathy  I  give  I  need  — 

The  poet's  doom  is  thine  ! 


138  THE    WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

Art  thou  a  lover,  Will  ?  —  Has  proved 

The  fairest  can  deceive  ? 
Thine  is  the  lot  of  all  who  Ve  loved 

Since  Adam  wedded  Eve ! 

Hast  trusted  in  a  friend,  and  seen 

No  friend  was  he  in  need  ? 
A  common  error  —  men  still  lean 

Upon  as  frail  a  reed. 

Hast  thou,  in  seeking  wealth  or  fame, 

A  crown  of  brambles  won  ? 
O'er  all  the  earth  't  is  just  the  same 

With  every  mother's  son ! 

Hast  found  the  world  a  Babel  wide, 

Where  man  to  mammon  stoops  ? 
Where  flourish  Arrogance  and  Pride, 

While  modest  Merit  droops  ? 

What,  none  of  these  ?  —  Then,  whence  thy  pain  ? 

To  guess  it  who  ?s  the  skill  ? 
Pray  have  the  kindness  to  explain 

Why  I  should  whip  poor  Will  ? 

Dost  merely  ask  thy  just  desert  ? 

What,  not  another  word  ?  — 
Back  to  the  woods  again,  unhurt  — 

I  will  not  harm  thee,  bird ! 


THE   EXILE   TO   HIS    SISTER.  139 

But  use  thee  kindly  — for  my  nerves, 

Like  thine,  have  penance  done  : 
"  Use  every  man  as  he  deserves, 

Who  shall  'scape  whipping  ?" — None ! 

Farewell,  poor  Will !  —  Not  valueless 

This  lesson  by  thee  given  : 
"  Keep  thine  own  counsel,  and  confess 

Thvself  alone  to  Heaven !" 


THE  EXILE  TO  HIS  SISTER. 

As  streams  at  morn,  from  seas  that  glide, 

Rejoicing  on  their  sparkling  way, 
Will  turn  again  at  eventide, 

To  mingle  with  their  kindred  spray  — 
E'en  so  the  currents  of  the  soul, 

Dear  sister,  wheresoever  we  rove, 
Will  backward  to  our  country  roll, 

The  boundless  ocean  of  our  love. 

Yon  northern  star,  now  burning  bright, 
The  guide  by  which  the  wave-tossed  steer, 

Beams  not  with  a  more  constant  light 
Than  does  thy  love,  my  sister  dear. 


NEAR   THE    LAKE. 


From  stars  above  the  streams  below 
Receive  the  glory,  they  impart  ; 

So,  sister,  do  thy  virtues  glow 
Within  the  mirror  of  my  heart. 


NEAR  THE  LAKE. 

the  lake  where  drooped  the  willow, 

Long  time  ago  !  — 
Where  the  rock  threw  back  the  billow, 

Brighter  than  snow  — 
Dwelt  a  maid,  beloved  and  cherished 

By  high  and  low  ; 
But  with  autumn's  leaf  she  perished, 

Long  time  ago  1 

Rock  and  tree  and  flowing  water, 

Long  time  ago  !  — 
Bee  and  bird  and  blossom  taught  her 

Love's  spell  to  know  ! 
While  to  my  fond  words  she  listened, 

Murmuring  low, 
Tenderly  her  dove-eyes  glistened, 

Long  time  agoJ 


THE  PASTOR'S  DAUGHTER.  141 

Mingled  were  our  hearts  for  ever. 

Long  time  ago  1  .  , 

Can  I  now  forget  her  ?  —  Never  ! 

No  —  lost  one  —  no ! 
To  her  grave  these  tears  are  given, 

Ever  to  flow  : 
She 's  the  star  I  missed  from  heaven, 

Long  time  ago  1 


THE  PASTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 

AN  ivy-mantled  cottage  smiled, 

Deep-wooded  near  a  streamlet's  side, 
Where  dwelt  the  village-pastor's  child, 
In  all  her  maiden  bloom  and  pride. 
Proud  suitors  paid  their  court  and  duty 
To  this  romantic  sylvan  beauty  : 
Yet  none  of  all  the  swains  who  sought  her, 
Was  worthy  of  the  pastor's  daughter. 

The  town-gallants  crossed  hill  and  plain, 
To  seek  the  groves  of  her  retreat ; 

And  many  followed  in  her  train, 
To  lay  their  riches  at  her  feet. 


142  THE  PASTOR'S  DAUGHTER. 

But  still,  for  all  their  arts  so  wary, 
From  home  they  could  not  lure  the  fairy. 
A  maid  without  a  heart  they  thought  her, 
And  so  they  left  the  pastor's  daughter. 


One  balmy  eve  in  dewy  spring 

A  bard  became  her  father's  guest : 
He  struck  his  harp,  and  every  string 

To  love  vibrated  in  her  breast. 
With  that  true  faith  which  can  not  falter, 
Her  hand  was  given  at  the  altar, 
And  faithful  was  the  heart  he  brought  her 
To  wedlock  and  the  pastor's  daughter. 


How  seldom  learn  the  worldly  gay 
With  all  their  sophistry  and  art, 
The  sweet  and  gentle  primrose-way 
To  woman's  fond,  devoted  heart ! 
They  seek,  but  never  find,  the  treasure, 
Revealed  in  eyes  of  jet  and  azure. 
To  them,  like  truth  in  wells  of  water, 
A  fable  is  the  pastor's  daughter. 


MARGARET!  A.  143 


MARGARETTA. 

WHEN  I  was  in  my  teens, 

I  loved  dear  Margaretta  : 
I  know  not  what  it  means, 

I  can  not  now  forget  her  ! 
That  vision  of  the  past 

My  head  is  ever  crazing  ; 
Yet,  when  I  saw  her  last, 

I  could  not  speak  for  gazing  ! 
Oh,  lingering  bud  of  May ! 

Dear  as  when  first  I  met  her  ; 
Worn  is  my  heart  alway, 

Life-cherished  Margaretta ! 

We  parted  near  the  stile, 

As  morn  was  faintly  breaking  : 
For  many  a  weary  mile 

Oh  how  my  heart  was  aching ! 
But  distance,  time,  and  change, 

Have  lost  me  Margaretta ; 
And  yet  ?t  is  sadly  strange 

That  I  can  not  forget  her ! 


144  THE    COLONEL. 

O  queen  of  rural  maids  — 
My  dark-eyed  Margaret ta  — 

The  heart  the  mind  upbraids 
That  struggles  to  forget  her ! 

My  love,  I  know,  will  seem 

A  wayward,  boyish  folly  ; 
But,  ah  !  it  was  a  dream 

Most  sweet  —  most  melancholy. 
Were  mine  the  world's  domain, 

To  me  7t  were  fortune  better 
To  be  a  boy  again, 

And  dream  of  Margaretta. 
Oh  !  memory  of  the  past, 

Why  linger  to  regret  her  ? 
My  first  love  was  my  last ! 

And  that  is  Margaretta  ! 


THE  COLONEL. 

THE  Colonel! — Such  a  creature  ! 

I  met  him  at  the  ball !  — 
So  fair  in  form  and  feature. 

And  so  divinely  tall ! 
He  praised  my  dimpled  cheeks  and  curls, 

While  whirling  through  the  dance, 
And  matched  me  with  the  dark-eyed  girls 

Of  Italy  and  Prance  1 


THE    COLONEL.    .  145 

He  said,  in  accents  thrilling  — 

Love 's  boundless  as  the  sea  ; 
And  I,  dear  maid,  am  willing 

To  give  up  all  for  thee  \" 
I  heard  him  —  blushed — "  Would  ask  mamma" — 

And  then  my  eyes  grew  dim  ! 
He  looked  —  I  said,  "Mamma  —  papa  — 

I M  give  up  all  for  him !" 

My  governor  is  rich  and  old  ; 

This  well  the  Colonel  knew. 
"  Love's  wings,"  he  said,  "  when  fringed  with  gold, 

Are  beautiful  to  view !" 
I  thought  his  'havior  quite  the  ton, 

Until  I  saw  him  stare 
When  merely  told  that  —  brother  —  John  — 

Papa  —  would  —  make  —  his  —  heir  ! 

Next  day  and  the  day  after 

I  dressed  for  him  in  vain  ; 
Was  moved  to  tears  and  laughter  — 

He  never  came  again  ! 
But  I  have  heard,  for  Widow  Dash 

He  bought  the  bridal  ring  ; 
And  he  will  wed  her  for  her  cash  — 

The  ugly,  hateful  thing  ! 
10 


THE  SWEEP'S  CAROL. 


THE  SWEEP'S  CAROL. 

THROUGH  the  streets  of  New  York  city, 

Blithely  every  morn, 
I  carolled  o'er  my  artless  ditty, 

Cheerly  though  forlorn ! 
Before  the  rosy  light,  my  lay 

Was  to  the  maids  begun, 
Ere  winters  snows  had  passed  away, 

Or  smiled  the  summer  sun. 

Carol — 0  —  a  —  y  —  e  —  o! 

In  summer  months  I  'd  fondly  woo 

Those  merry,  dark-eyed  girls, 
With  faces  of  the  ebon  hue, 

And  teeth  like  eastern  pearls  ! 
One  vowed  my  love  she  would  repay  — 

Her  heart  my  song  had  won  — 
When  winter  snows  had  passed  away, 

And  smiled  the  summer  sun. 

Carol —  0  — a — y —  e  —  o  ! 

A  year,  alas !  had  scarcely  flown  — 
Hope  beamed  but  to  deceive  — 

Ere  I  was  left  to  weep  alone, 
From  morn  till  dewy  eve ! 


THE    SEASONS    OF   LOVE. 


She  died  one  dreary  break  of  day  !  _ 
Grief  weighs  my  heart  upon  !  _ 

In  vain  the  snows  may  pass  away, 
Or  smile  the  summer  sun. 

Carol  —  0  —  a—  -y—  e  —  o! 


THE  SEASONS  OF  LOVE. 

THE  spring-time  of  love 

Is  both  happy  and  gay, 
For  joy  sprinkles  blossoms 

And  balm  in  our  way  ; 
The  sky,  earth,  and  ocean, 

In  beauty  repose, 
And  all  the  bright  future 

Is  coleur  de  rose. 

The  summer  of  love 

Is  the  bloom  of  the  heart, 
When  hill,  grove,  and  valley, 

Their  music  impart ; 
And  the  pure  glow  of  heaven 

Is  seen  in  fond  eyes, 
As  lakes  show  the  rainbow 

That >s  hung  in  the  skies. 


148  MY   WOODLAND    BRIDE. 

The  autumn  of  love 

Is  the  season  of  cheer  — 
Life's  mild  Indian  summer, 

The  smile  of  the  year  ! 
Which  comes  when  the  golden 

Ripe  harvest  is  stored, 
And  yields  its  own  blessings — • 

Repose  and  reward. 


The  winter  of  love 

Is  the  beam  that  we  win 
While  the  storm  scowls  without, 

From  the  sunshine  within. 
Love's  reign  is  eternal — 

The  heart  is  his  throne, 
And  he  has  all  seasons 

Of  life  for  his  own. 


MT  WOODLAND  BRIDE. 

HERE  upon  the  mountain-side 
Till  now  we  met  together  ; 

Here  I  won  my  woodland  bride, 
In  flush  of  summer  weather. 


OH,    THIXK    OF   ME  !  149 

Green  was  then  the  linden-bough, 
This  dear  retreat  that  shaded  ; 

Autumn  winds  are  round  me  now, 
And  the  leaves  have  faded. 


She  whose  heart  was  all  my  own, 

In  this  summer-bower, 
With  all  pleasant  things  has  flown, 

Sunbeam,  bird,  and  flower ! 
But  her  memory  will  stay 

With  me,  though  we  're  parted  — 
From  the  scene  I  turn  away, 

Lone  and  broken-hearted  ! 


OH,  THINK  OF  ME  ! 

OH,  think  of  me,  my  own  beloved, 

Whatever  cares  beset  thee  ! 
And  when  thou  hast  the  falsehood  proved, 

Of  those  with  smiles  who  met  thee  — 
While  o'er  the  sea,  think,  love,  of  me, 

Who  never  can  forget  thee  ; 
Let  memory  trace  the  trysting-place, 

Where  I  with  tears  regret  thee. 


150           MY    BARK    IS    OUT    UPON    THE    SEA. 

Bright  as  yon  star,  within  my  mind, 

A  hand  unseen  hath  set  thee  ; 
There  hath  thine  image  been  enshrined, 

Since  first,  dear  love,  I  met  thee  ; 
So  in  thy  breast  I  fain  would  rest, 

If,  haply,  fate  would  let  me  — 
And  live  or  die,  so  thou  wert  nigh, 

To  love  or  to  regret  me  ! 


MY  BARK  IS   OUT   UPON  THE   SEA. 

MY  bark  is  out  upon  the  sea  — 

The  moon's  above  ; 
Her  light  a  presence  seems  to  me 

Like  woman's  love. 
My  native  land  I've  left  behind  — 

Afar  I  roam  ; 
In  other  climes  no  hearts  I  '11  find 

Like  those  at  home. 


Of  all  yon  sisterhood  of  stars, 

But  one  is  true  : 
She  paves  my  path  with  silver  bars, 

And  beams  like  you, 


WILL  NOBODY  MARRY  ME  ?        151 

Whose  purity  the  waves  recall 

In  music's  flow, 
As  round  my  bark  they  rise  and  fall 

In  liquid  snow. 


The  freshening  breeze  now  swells  our  sails  ! 

A  storm  is  on  ! 
The  weary  moon's  dim  lustre  fails  — 

The  stars  are  gone  ! 
~Not  so  fades  Love's  eternal  light 

When  storm-clouds  weep  ; 
I  know  one  heart's  with  me  to-night 
•    Upon  the  deep ! 


WILL  NOBODY  MARRY  ME  ? 

HEIGH-HO  !  for  a  husband  !  —  Heigh-ho  ! 

There 's  danger  in  longer  delay ! 
Shall  I  never  again  have  a  beau  ? 

Will  nobody  marry  me,  pray  ! 
I  begin,  to  feel  strange,  I  declare  ! 

With  beauty  my  prospects  will  fade  — 
I  'd  give  myself  up  to  despair 

If  I  thought  I  should  die  an  old  maid  1 


152  THE    STAR    OF    LOVE. 

I  once  cut  the  beaux  in  a  huff — 

I  thought  it  a  sin  and  a  shame 
That  no  one  had  spirit  enough 

To  ask  me  to  alter  my  name. 
So  I  turned  up  my  nose  at  the  short, 

And  cast  down  my  eyes  at  the  tall  ; 
But  then  I  just  did  it  in  sport  — 

And  now  I  Ve  no  lover  at  all ! 


These  men  are  the  plague  of  my  life  : 

'Tis  hard  from  so  many  to  choose ! 
Should  any  one  wish  for  a  wife, 

Could  I  have  the  heart  to  refuse  ? 
I  don't  know  —  for  none  have  proposed  — 

Oh,  dear  me  !  —  I'm  frightened,  I  vow ! 
Good  gracious !  who  ever  supposed 

That  I  should  be  single  till  now  ? 


THE  STAR  OF  LOVE. 

THE  star  of  love  now  shines  above, 

Cool  zephyrs  crisp  the  sea  ; 
Among  the  leaves  the  wind-harp  weaves 

Its  serenade  for  thee. 


WELL-A-DAY  !  153 

The  star,  the  breeze,  the  wave,  the  trees, 

Their  minstrelsy  unite, 
But  all  are  drear  till  thou  appear 

To  decorate  the  night. 

The  light  of  noon  streams  from  the  moon, 

Though  with  a  milder  ray  ; 
O'er  hill  and  grove,  like  woman's  love, 

It  cheers  us  on  our  way. 
Thus  all  that's  bright  —  the  moon,  the  night, 

The  heavens,  the  earth,  the  sea, 
Exert  their  powers  to  bless  the  hours 

W§  dedicate  to  thee. 


WELL-A-DAY ! 

LOVE  comes  and  goes  like  a  spell ! 
How,  no  one  knows,  nor  can  tell ! 
Now  here  —  now  there  —  then  away ' 
None  dreameth  where  !  —  Well-a-day ! 

Love  should  be  true  as  the  star 
Seen  in  the  blue  sky  afar !  — 
Now  here  —  now  there  —  like  the  lay 
Of  lutes  in  th>  air  !  —  Well-a-dav ! 


154  NOT   MARRIED   YET  ! 

Should  love  depart,  not  a  tie 
Binds  up  the  heart  till  we  die  !  — 
Now  here  —  now  there  —  sad  we  stray  \ 
Life  is  all  care !  — Well-a-day  ! 


NOT  MAKRIED  YET! 

I  'M  single  yet  —  I  'm  single  yet ! 

And  years  have  flown  since  I  came  out  1 
In  vain  I  sigh  —  in  vain  I  fret  — 

Ye  gods  I  what  are  the  men  about ^ 
I  vow  1 7m  twenty !  —  0  ye  powers ! 

A  spinster's  lot  is  hard  to  bear  — 
On  earth  alone  to  pass  her  hours, 

And  afterward  lead  apes  —  down  tJwre  I 


No  offer  yet  —  no  offer  yet ! 

I  'm  puzzled  quite  to  make  it  out : 
For  every  beau  my  cap  I  set  — 

What,  what,  what  are  the  men  about  ? 
They  do  n't  propose  —  they  won't  propose, 

For  fear,  perhaps,  I'd  not  say,  "  Yes !" 
Just  let  them  try  —  for  Heaven  knows 

I  'm  tired  of  single-blessedness. 


LADY    OF    ENGLAND.  155 

Not  married  yet* —  not  married  yet  — 

The  deuce  is  in  the  men,  I  fear ! 
I  ?m  like  a  —  something  to  be  let, 

And  to  be  let  alone  —  that  's  clear. 
They  say,  "  She's  pretty —  but  no  chink  — 

And  love  without  it  runs  in  debt  !" 
It  agitates  my  nerves  to  think 

That  I  have  had  no  offer  yet. 


LADY  OF  ENGLAND. 

LADY  OF  ENGLAND  —  o'er  the  seas 
Thy  name  was  borne  on  every  breeze, 
Till  all  this  sunset  clime  became 
Familiar  with  Victoria's  name. 

Though  seas  divide  us  many  a  mile, 
Yet,  for  the  Queen  of  that  fair  isle, 
From  which  our  fathers  sprung,  there  roves 
A  blessing  from  this  Land  of  Groves. 

Our  Fatherland !  —  Fit  theme  for  song ! 
When  them  art  named,  what  memories  throng! 
Shall  England  cease  our  love  to  claim  ? 
Not  while  our  language  is  the  same. 


156  OH,    THIS    LOVE  ! 

Scion  of  kings !  so  live  and  reign, 
That,  when  thy  nation's  swelling  strain 
Is  breathed  amid  our  forests  green, 
We  too  may  sing,  "  God  save  the  Queen 


OH,  THIS  LOVE  ! 

Music  —  "  Jess  Macfarlane." 

OH,  this  love  —  this  love  ! 

I  ainse  the  passion  slighted  ; 
But  hearts  that  truly  love, 

Must  break  or  be  united. 
Oh,  this  love  I 

When  first  he  cam*  to  woo, 
I  little  cared  aboot  him  ; 

But  scene  I  felt  as  though 
I  could  na'  live  without  him. 
Oh,  this  love ! 

He  brought  to  me  the  ring, 
My  hand  asked  o'  my  mither- 

I  could  na7  bear  the  thought 
That  he  should  wed  anither. 
Oh,  this  love ! 


n 


151 


MARY, 

And  now  I'm  a'  his  ain  — 
In  a'  his  joys  I  mingle  ; 

Nae  for  the  wealth  of  warlds 
Wad  I  again  be  single ! 
Oh,  this  love ! 


MARY. 

ONE  balmy  summer  night,  Mary, 

Just  as  the  risen  moon 
Had  thrown  aside  her  fleecy  veil, 

We  left  the  gay  saloon  ; 
And  in  a  green,  sequestered  spot, 

Beneath  a  drooping  tree, 
Fonds  words  were  breathed,  by  you  forgot, 

That  still  are  dear  to  me,  Mary, 
That  still  are  dear  to  me. 

Oh,  we  were  happy  then,  Mary  — 

Time  lingered  on  his  way, 
To  crowd  a  lifetime  in  a  night, 

Whole  ages  in  a  day  I 
If  star  and  sun  would  set  and  rise 

Thus  in  our  after  years, 
The  world  would  be  a  paradise, 

Aid  not  a  vale  of  tears,  Mary, 
And  not  a  vale  of  tears. 


158  THE    BEAM    OF   DEVOTIOX. 

I  live  but  in  the  past,  Mary  — 

The  glorious  days  of  old ! 
When  love  was  hoarded  in  the  heart, 

As  misers  hoard  their  gold  : 
And  often  like  a  bridal  train, 

To  music  soft  and  low, 
The  by-gone  moments  cross  my  brain, 

In  all  their  summer  glow,  Mary, 
In  all  their  summer  glow. 

These  visions  form  and  fade,  Mary, 

As  age  comes  stealing  on, 
To  bring  the  light  and  leave  the  shade 

Of  days  for  ever  gone  ! 
The  poet's  brow  may  wear  at  last 

The  bays  that  round  it  fall  ; 
But  love  has  rose-buds  of  the  past 

Far  dearer  than  them  all,  Mary, 
Far  dearer  than  them  all ! 


THE  BEAM  OF  DEVOTION. 

I  NEVER  could  find  a  good  reason 
Why  sorrow  unbidden  should  stay, 

And  all  the  bright  joys  of  life's  season 
Be  driven  unheeded  away. 


THE    WELCOME    AND    FAREWELL.  159 

Our  cares  would  wake  no  more  emotion, 
Were  we  to  our  lot  but  resigned, 

Than  pebbles  flung  into  the  ocean, 
That  leave  scarce  a  ripple  behind. 


The  world  has  a  spirit  of  beauty, 

Which  looks  upon  all  for  the  best, 
And  while  it  discharges  its  duty, 

To  Providence  leaves  all  the  rest : 
That  spirit 's  the  beam  of  devotion, 

Which  lights  us  through  life  to  its  clos^, 
And  sets,  like  the  sun  in  the  ocean, 

More  beautiful  far  than  it  rose. 


THE  WELCOME  AND  FAREWELL. 

To  meet,  and  part,  as  we  have  met  and  parted, 

One  moment  cherished  and  the  next  forgot, 
To  wear  a  smile  when  almost  broken-hearted, 

I  know  full  well  is  hapless  woman's  lot  ; 
Yet  let  me,  to  thy  tenderness  appealing, 

Avert  this  brief  but  melancholy  doom  — 
Content  that  close  beside  the  thorn  of  feeling, 

Grows  memory,  like  a  rose,  in  guarded  bloom. 


160  ?TIS    NOW    THE   PROMISED    HOUR. 

Love's  history,  dearest,  is  a  sad  one  ever, 

Yet  often  with  a  smile  I  ?ve  heard  it  told! 
Oh,  there  are  records  of  the  heart  which  never 

Are  to  the  scrutinizing  gaze  unrolled ! 
My  eyes  to  thine  may  scarce  again  aspire  — 

Still  in  thy  memory,  dearest  let  me  dwell, 
And  hush,  with  this  hope,  the  magnetic  wire, 

Wild  with  our  mingled  welcome  and  farewell ! 


'TIS  NOW  THE  PROMISED  HOUR. 


A  SERENADE. 


THE  fountains  serenade  the  flowers, 

Upon  their  silver  lute  -- 
And,  nestled  in  their  leafy  bowers, 

The  forest-birds  are  mute  : 
The  bright  and  glittering  hosts  above 

Unbar  their  golden  gates, 
While  Nature  holds  her  court  of  love, 

And  for  her  client  waits. 
Then,  lady,  wake  —  in  beauty  rise ! 

'T  is  now  the  promised  hour, 
When  torches  kindle  in  the  skies 

To  light  thee  to  thy  bower. 


THE    SONGS   OF   HOME.  161 

The  day  we  dedicate  to  care  — 

To  love  the  witching  night ; 
For  all  that  's  beautiful  and  fair 

In  hours  like  these  unite. 
E'en  thus  the  sweets  to  flowerets  given  — 

The  moonlight  on  the  tree  — 
And  all  the  bliss  of  earth  and  heaven  — 

Are  mingled,  love,  in  thee. 
Then,  lady,  wake  —  in  beauty  rise ! 

7T  is  now  the  promised  hour, 
When  torches  kindle  in  the  skies 

To  light  thee  to  thy  bower  ! 


THE  SONGS  OF  HOME. 

OH,  sing  once  more  those  dear,  familiar  lays, 

Whose  gliding  measure  every  bosom  thrills, 
And  takes  my  heart  back  to  the  happy  days 

When  first  I  sung  them  on  my  native  hills ! 
With  the  fresh  feelings  of  the  olden  times, 

I  hear  them  now  upon  a  foreign  shore  — 
The  simple  music  and  the  artless  rhymes ! 

Oh;  sing  those  dear,  familiar  lays  once  more, 
Those  cheerful  lays  of  other  days  — 

Oh,  sing  those  cheerful  lays  once  more  ! 
11 


162  MASONIC    HYMN. 

Oh,  sing  once  more  those  joy-provoking  strains, 

Which,  half  forgotten,  in  iny  memory  dwell ; 
They  send  the  life-blood  bounding  thro'  my  veins, 

And  linger  round  me  like  a  fairy  spell. 
The  songs  of  home  are  to  the  human  heart 

Far  dearer  than  the  notes  that  song-birds  pour, 
And  of  our  very  nature  form  a  part : 

Then  sing  those  dear,  familiar  lays  once  more  ! 
Those  cheerful  lays  of  other  days  — 

Oh,  sing  those  cheerful  lays  once  more  ! 


MASONIC  HYMN. 

OUR  Order,  like  the  ark  of  yore, 
Upon  the  raging  sea  was  tossed  ; 

Secure  amid  the  billow's  roar, 

It  moved,  and  nothing  has  been  lost. 


When  elements  discordant  seek 

To  wreck  what  God  in  mercy  saves, 

The  struggle  is  as  vain  and  weak 
As  that  of  the  retiring  waves. 


THE    DISMISSED.  163 

The  Power  who  bade  the  waters  cease, 

The  Pilot  of  the  Pilgrim  Band, 
He  gave  the  gentle  dove  of  peace 

The  branch  she  bore  them  from  the  land 


In  him  alone  we  put  our  trust, 

With  heart  and  hand  and  one  accord, 

Ascribing,  with  the  true  and  just, 
All  "holiness* unto  the  Lord." 


THE  DISMISSED. 

"  I  suppose  she  was  right  in  rejecting  my  suit, 
But  why  did  she  kick  me  down  stairs?" 

HALLECK'S  "  Discarded." 

THE  wing  of  my  spirit  is  broken, 

My  day-star  of  hope  has  declined  ; 
For  a  month  not  a  word  have  I  spoken 

That 's  either  polite  or  refined. 
My  mind 's  like  the  sky  in  bad  weather, 

When  mist-clouds  around  us  are  curled : 
And,  viewing  myself  altogether, 

I  Jm  the  veriest  wretch  in  the  world ! 


164  THE    DISMISSED. 

I  wander  about  like  a  vagrant  — 

I  spend  half  my  time  in  the  street ; 
My  conduct Ja  improper  and  flagrant, 

For  I  quarrel  with  all  that  I  meet. 
My  dress,  too,  is  wholly  neglected, 

My  hat  I  pull  over  my  brow, 
And  I  look  like  a  fellow  suspected 

Of  wishing  to  kick  up  a  row. 


In  vain  I  've  endeavored  to  borrow 

From  friends  "some  material  aid"  — 
For  my  landlady  views  me  with  sorrow, 

When  she  thinks  of  the  bill  that 's  unpaid. 
Abroad  my  acquaintances  flout  me, 

The  ladies  cry,  "  Bless  us,  look  there  !" 
And  the  little  boys  cluster  about  me, 

And  sensible  citizens  stare. 


One  says,  "He's  a  victim  to  cupid  ;" 

Another,  "  His  conduct's  too  bad  ;" 
A  third,  "  He  is  awfully  stupid  ;" 

A  fourth,  "  He  is  perfectly  mad  !"  — 
And  then  I  am  watched  like  a  bandit, 

Mankind  with  me  all  are  at  strife  : 
By  heaven  no  longer  I  '11  stand  it, 

But  quick  put  an  end  to  my  life  ! 


LORD    OF   THE    CASTLE.  165 

I  >ve  thought  of  the  means  —  yet  I  shudder 

At  dagger  or  ratsbane  or  rope  ; 
At  drawing  with  lancet  my  blood,  or 

At  razor  without  any  soap ! 
Suppose  I  should  fall  in  a  duel, 

And  thus  leave  the  stage  with  eclat  1 
But  to  die  with  a  bullet  is  cruel  — 

Besides  't  would  be  breaking  the  law  ! 


Yet  one  way  remains  :  to  the  river 

I  '11  fly  from  the  goadings  of  care  !  — 
But  drown  ?  —  oh,  the  thought  makes  me  shiver — 

A  terrible  death,  I  declare  ! 
Ah,  no  !  —  I  '11  once  more  see  my  Kitty, 

And  parry  her  cruel  disdain  — 
Beseech  her  to  take  me  in  pity, 

And  never  dismiss  me  again. 


LORD  OF  THE  CASTLE. 

"LORD  of  the  castle!  oh,  where  goest  thou? 
Why  is  the  triumph  of  pride  on  thy  brow  ?'7 
"  Pilgrim,  my  bridal  awaits  me  to-day, 
Over  the  mountains  away  atid  away." 


166  THE    FALLEX    BRAVE. 

"  Flora  in  beauty  and  solitude  roves, 
Listening  for  thee  in  the  shade  of  the  groves." 
"  Pilgrim,  I  hasten  her  truth  to  repay, 
Over  the  mountains  away  and  away." 

"  Guided  by  honor,  how  brilliant  the  road 
Leading  from  cottage  to  castle  abode  1" 
"  Pilgrim,  its  dictates  I  learned  to  obey, 
Over  the  mountains  away  and  away." 


THE  FALLEN  BRAVE. 

FROM  cypress  and  from  laurel  boughs 

Are  twined,  in  sorrow  and  in  pride, 
The  leaves  that  deck  the  mouldering  brows 

Of  those  who  for  their  country  died  : 
In  sorrow,  that  the  sable  pall 

Enfolds  the  valiant  and  the  brave  ; 
In  pride  that  those  who  nobly  fall 

Win  garlands  that  adorn  the  grave. 

The  onset  —  the  pursuit  —  the  roar 
Of  victory  o'er  the  routed  foe  — 

Will  startle  from  their  rest  no  more 
The  fallen  brave  of  Mexico. 


SONG    OF    THE    TROUBADOUR.  16t 

To  God  alone  such  spirits  yield  ! 

He  took  them  in  their  strength  and  bloom, 
When  gathering,  on  the  tented  field, 

The  garlands  woven  for  the  tomb. 


The  shrouded  flag  —  the  drooping  spear  — 

The  muffled  drum  —  the  solemn  bell  — 
The  funeral  train  —  the  dirge  —  the  bier  — 

The  mourners'  sad  and  last  farewell  — 
Are  fading  tributes  to  the  worth 

Of  those  whose  deeds  this  homage  claim  ; 
But  Time,  who  mingles  them  with  earth 

Keeps  green  the  garlands  of  their  fame. 


SONG  OF  THE  TROUBADOUR. 

IN  IMITATION  OP  THE  LAYS  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 

"  COME,  list  to  the  lay  of  the  olden  time," 
A  troubadour  sung  on  a  moonlit  stream  : 

"  The  scene  is  laid  in  a  foreign  clime, 

"  A  century  back  —  and  love  is  the  theme." 

Love  was  the  theme  of  the  troubadour's  rhyme, 

Of  lady  and  lord  of  the  olden  time. 


168  SONG    OF   THE    TROUBADOUR. 

"  At  an  iron-barred  turret,  a  lady  fair 
11  Knelt  at  the  close  of  the  vesper-chime  : 

11  Her  beads  she  numbered  in  silent  prayer 
"For  one  far  away,  whom  to  love  was  her 
crime. 

"  Love,"  sung  the  troubadour,  "love  was  a  crime, 

"  When  fathers  were  stern,  in  the  olden  time. 


"  The  warder  had  spurned  from  the  castle  gate 
"The   minstrel   who   wooed    her   in   flowing 
rhyme  — 

"  He  came  back  from  battle  in  regal  estate  — 
"  The  bard  was  a  prince  of  the  olden  time. 

11  Love/'  sung  the  troubadour,  "listened  to  rhyme, 

"  And  welcomed  the  bard  of  the  olden  time. 


"  The  prince  in  disguise  had  the  lady  sought  ; 

"  To  chapel  they  hied  in  their  rosy  prime  : 
"  Thus  worth  won  a  jewel  that  wealth   never 
bought, 

* '  A  fair  lady's  heart  of  the  olden  time. 
"  The  moral,"  the  troubadour  sung,  "  of  my  rhyme, 
"  Was  well  understood  in  the  olden  time." 


CHAMPIONS    OF    LIBERTY.  169 


CHAMPIONS   OF  LIBERTY. 

THE  pride  of  all  our  chivalry, 
The  name  of  Worth  will  stand, 

While  throbs  the  pulse  of  liberty 
Within  his  native  land  : 

The  wreath  his  brow  was  formed  to  wear, 

A  nation's  tears  will  freshen  there. 


The  young  companion  of  his  fame, 

In  war  and  peace  allied, 
With  garlands  woven  round  his  name, 

Reposes  at  his  side  : 
Duncan,  whose  deeds  for  evermore 
Will  live  amid  his  cannon's  roar. 

Gates,  in  his  country's  quarrel  bold, 
When  she  to  arms  appealed, 

Sought  like  the  Christian  knights  of  old, 
His  laurels  on  the  field  : 

Where  victory  rent  the  welkin-dome, 

He  earned  —  a  sepulchre  at  home. 


170  CHAMPIONS    OF   LIBERTY. 

The  drum-beat  of  the  bannered  brave, 
The  requiem  and  the  knell, 

The  volley  o'er  the  soldier's  grave, 
His  comrades'  last  farewell, 

Are  tributes  rendered  to  the  dead, 

And  sermons  to  the  living  read. 


But  there 's  a  glory  brighter  far 
Than  all  that  earth  has  given  ; 

A  beacon,  like  the  index-star, 
That  points  the  way  to  heaven  : 

It  is  a  life  well  spent  —  its  close 

The  cloudless  sundown  of  repose. 


That  such  was  theirs  for  whom  we  mourn, 

These  obsequies  attest ; 
And  though  in  sorrow  they  are  borne 

Unto  their  final  rest, 
A  guide  will  their  example  be 
To  future  champions  of  the  free. 


THE  HUNTER'S  CAROL.  1  7 1 


THE  HUNTER'S  CAROL. 

A  MERRY  life  does  the  hunter  lead ! 

He  wakes  with  the  dawn  of  day  ; 
He  whistles  his  dog  — he  mounts  his  steed, 

And  scuds  to  the  woods  away  ! 
The  lightsome  tramp  of  the  deer  he  '11  mark, 

As  they  troop  in  herds  along  ; 
And  his  rifle  startles  the  cheerful  lark 

As  he  carols  his  morning  song  ! 

The  hunter's  life  is  the  life  for  me  !  — 

That  is  the  life  for  a  man ! 
Let  others  sing  of  a  home  on  the  sea, 

But  match  me  the  woods  if  you  can ! 
Then  give  me  a  gun  —  I  Ve  an  eye  to  mark 

The  deer  as  they  bound  along !  — 
My  steed,  dog,  and  gun,  and  the  cheerful  lark 

To  carol  my  morning  son«* ! 


172  WASHINGTON'S  MONUMENT. 


WASHINGTON'S   MONUMENT. 

A  MONUMENT  to  Washington  ? 

A  tablet  graven  with  his  name  ?  — 
Green  be  the  mound  it  stands  upon, 

And  everlasting  as  his  fame  ! 

His  glory  fills  the  land— the  plain, 
The  moor,  the  mountain,  and  the  mart ! 

More  firm  than  column,  urn,  or  fane, 
His  monument  —  the  human  heart. 

The  Christian  —  patriot  —  hero  —  sage  ! 

The  chief  from  heaven  in  mercy  sent  ; 
His  deeds  are  written  on  the  age  — 

His  country  is  his  monument. 

"  The  sword  of  Gideon  and  the  Lord  " 
Was  mighty  in  his  mighty  hand  — 

The  God  who  guided  he  adored, 

And  with  His  blessing  freed  the  land. 

The  first  in  war  — the  first  in  peace  — 
The  first  in  hearts  that  freemen  own  ; 


THE  SISTER'S  APPEAL.  1?3 

Unparalleled  till  time  shall  cease  — 
He  lives  immortal  and  alone. 

Yet  let  the  rock-hewn  tower  arise, 
High  to  the  pathway  of  the  sun, 

And  speak  to  the  approving  skies 
Our  gratitude  to  Washington. 


THE  SISTER'S  APPEAL. 

A   FRAGMENT. 
********** 

You  remember  — don't  you,  brother  — 

In  our  early  years, 
The  counsels  of  our  poor,  dear  mother, 

And  her  hopes  and  fears  ? 

She  told  us  to  love  one  another 

Brother,  dry  your  tears  ! 

We  are  only  two,  dear  brother, 

In  this  babel  wide  ! 
In  the  churchyard  sleeps  poor  mother, 

By  our  father's  side  !  — 
Then  let  us  cherish  one  another 

Till  in  death  we  bide. 


174  WALTER   GAY. 


SONG  OF  THE  REAPERS. 

JOYOUS  the  carol  that  rings  in  the  mountains, 
While  the  cleared  rales  are  refreshed  by  the 

fountains  — 

After  the  harvest  the  cheerful  notes  fall, 
And  all  the  glad  reapers  re-echo  the  call ! 
La  ra  la  la,  &c. 

Oh,  how  the  heart  bounds  at  that  simple  refrain  ! 
Dear  haunts  of  my  childhood,  I  'm  with  you  again  I 
Green  be  your  valleys,  enriched  by  the  rills, 
And  long  may  that  carol  be  sung  on  your  hills ! 
La  ra  la  la,  &c. 


WALTER  GAY. 

To  know  a  man  well,  it  is  said,  Walter  Gay, 
On  shipboard  with  him  you  should  be  : 

If  this  maxim >s  true,  then  well  I  know  you, 
For  we  sailed  together  the  sea,  Walter  Gay, 
For  we  sailed  together  the  sea. 


WALTER    GAY.  115 

I  now  watch  the  star  from  the  strand,  Walter 

Gay, 

As  oft  from  the  surge  I  did  then  : 
Like  that  all  alone  you  sparkled  and  shone, 
The  clear  northern  star  among  men,  Walter 
Gay, 
The  clear  northern  star  among  men  ! 

May  your  future  course,  like  the  past,  Walter 

Gay, 

From  wreck  and  misfortune  be  free  : 
Your  sorrows  and  care  fade  into  the  air, 

Or  vanish  like  foam  on  the  sea,  Walter  Gay, 
Or  vanish  like  foam  on  the  sea  ! 

The  friendship  that 's  formed  on  the  wave,  Wal 
ter  Gay, 

Is  deeper  than  plummet  may  sound  : 
That  can  not  decay  till  we  lose  our  way, 

Or  death  runs  the  vessel  aground,  Walter  Gay, 
Or  death  runs  the  vessel  aground  1 

When  life's  voyage  ends,  may  your  bark,  Wal 
ter  Gay, 

Spread  sail  like  the  wings  of  a  dove  — 
And,  when  lulls  the  wind,  safe  anchorage  find 
Within  the  good  harbor  above,  Walter  Gay, 
Within  the  2:001!  harbor  above  ! 


176  GROUNDS    FOR   DIVORCE. 


GROUNDS  FOR  DIVORCE. 

HE. 

WHAT  can  a  man  do  when  a  woman 's  perverse, 
And  determined  to  have  her  own  way  ? 

SHE. 

At  the  alter  you  took  me  for  better  or  worse  : 
Am  I  worse  than  you  took  me  for  —  say, 

Silly  elf?  — 
Am  1  worse  than  you  took  me  for,  say  ? 

HE. 

For  an  angel  I  took  you  in  beauty  and  worth  — 
The  priest  a  mere  woman  has  given ! 

SHE. 

A  man  would  prefer  a  true  woman  on  earth, 
To  all  the  bright  angels  in  heaven  — 

Silly  elf!  - 
To  all  the  bright  angels  in  heaven ! 


GROUNDS    FOR   DIVORCE.  If  7 


HE. 


You  are  ever  ready  my  feelings  to  hurt 
At  the  veriest  trifle,  of  course. 


SHE. 


Forgetting  a  button  to  sew  on  your  shirt 
You  deem  a  good  ground  for  divorce  • — 

Silly  elf!  — 
You  deem  a  good  ground  for  divorce  ! 


HE. 


Well,  marriage  a  lottery  is,  and  a  blank 
Some  men  surely  draw  all  their  lives. 


SHE. 


Such  fellows  as  you,  sir,  themselves  have  to  thank  ; 

Good  husbands  make  always  good  wives 

Silly  elf !  — 

Good  husbands  make  always  good  wives  ! 
12 


178  TEMPERANCE    SONG. 


TEMPERANCE   SONG. 
(WRITTEN  FOR  THE  LADY  BY  WHOM  IT  WAS  SUNG.) 

AIR  —  "  Some  love  to  roam." 

SOME  love  to  stroll  where  the  wassail-bowl 

And  the  wine-cups  circle  free  ; 
None  of  that  band  shall  win  my  hand  : 

No !  a  sober  spouse  for  me. 
Like  cheerful  streams  when  morning  beams, 

With  him  my  life  would  flow  ; 
Not  down  the  crags,  the  drunkard  drags 

His  wife  to  want  and  wo  ! 
Oh  !  no,  no,  no  !  —  oh  !  no,  no,  no  ! 

At  midnight  dark,  the  drunkard  mark  — 

Oh,  what  a  sight,  good  lack  ! 
As  home  draws  near,  to  him  appear 

Grim  fiends  who  cross  his  track ! 
His  children's  name  he  dooms  to  shame  — 

His  wife  to  want  and  wo  ; 
She  is  betrayed,  for  wine  is  made 

Her  rival  and  her  foe. 
Oh  !  no,  no,  no  !  —  oh  !  no,  no,  no  ! 


BOAT-SONG.  1  ." 


BOAT-SONG. 

PULL  away  merrily  —  over  the  waters  ! 

Tug  to  your  oars  for  the  wood-tangled  shore  ; 
We  7re  off  and  afloat  with  earth's  loveliest  daugh 
ters, 

Worth  all  the  argosies  wave  ever  bore. 
Pull  away  gallantly  —  pull  away  valiantly  — 
Pull  with  a  swoop,  boys  ;  and  pull  for  the 
shore  : 

Merrily,  merrily,  bend  to  the  oar ! 

Pull  away  cheerily  !  —  land  is  before  us  — 
Green  groves  are  flinging  their  balm  to  the 

spray  ; 
The  sky,  like  the  spirit  of  love,  bending  o'er  us, 

Lights  her  bright  torches  to  show  us  the  way. 
Pull  away  charily  —  pull  away  warily  — 

Pull  with  a  nerve,  boys  ;  together  give  way  : 
Merrily,  merrily,  pull  to  the  lay  ! 

Pull  away  heartily  —  light  winds  are  blowing, 
Crisping  the  ripples  that  dance  at  our  side  ; 


180  WILLIE. 

The  moon  bathes  in  silver  the  path  we  are  going, 
And  night  is  arrayed  in  her  robes  like  a  bride. 

Pull  away  readily  —  pull  away  steadily  — 
Pull  with  a  will,  boys,  and  sing  as  we  glide 
Merrily,  merrily,  over  the  tide! 


WILLIE. 

I  CLASP  your  hand  in  mine,  Willie, 

And  fancy  I  Ve  the  art 
To  see,  while  gazing  in  your  face, 

What 's  passing  in  your  heart : 
7T  is  joy  an  honest  man  to  hold, 

That  gem  of  modest  worth, 
More  prized  than  all  the  sordid  gold 

Of  all  the  mines  of  earth,  Willie, 
Of  all  the  mines  of  earth. 

I  've  marked  your  love  of  right,  Willie, 

Your  proud  disdain  of  wrong  ; 
I  know  you  ?d  rather  aid  the  weak 

Than  battle  for  the  strong. 
The  golden  rule  —  religion's  stay  — 

With  constancy  pursue, 
Which  renders  others  all  that  they 

On  earth  can  render  you,  Willie, 
On  earth  can  render  you. 


WILLIE,  181 

A  conscience  void  of  guile,  Willie, 

A  disposition  kind, 
A  nature,  gentle  and  sincere, 

Accomplished  and  refined  : 
A  mind  that  was  not  formed  to  bow, 

An  aspiration  high, 
Are  written  on  your  manly  brow, 

And  in  your  cheerful  eye,  Willie, 
And  in  your  cheerful  eye. 

I  never  look  at  you,  Willie, 

But  with  an  anxious  prayer 
That  you  will  ever  be  to  me 

What  now  I  know  you  are. 
I  do  not  find  a  fault  to  chide, 

A  foible  to  annoy, 
For  you  are  all  your  father's  pride, 

And  all  your  mother's  joy,  Willie, 
And  all  your  mother's  joy. 

You're  all  that  I  could  hope,  Willie, 

And  more  than  I  deserve  ; 
Your  pressure  of  affection  now 

I  feel  in  every  nerve. 
I  love  you  —  not  for  station  —  land  — 

But  for  yourself  alone  : 
And  this  is  why  I  clasp  your  hand, 

So  fondly  in  my  own,  Willie, 
So  fondly  in  my  own. 


182  THE   ROCK    OF  THE   PILGRIMS. 


THE  ROCK  OF  THE  PILGRIMS. 

A  ROCK  in  the  wilderness  welcomed  our  sires, 

From  bondage  far  over  the  dark-rolling  sea  ; 
On  that  holy  altar  they  kindled  the  fires, 

Jehovah,  which  glow  in  our  bosoms  for  Thee. 
Thy  blessings  descended  in  sunshine  and  shower, 

Or  rose  from  the  soil  that  was  sown  by  Thy 

hand  ; 
The  mountain  and  valley  rejoiced  in  Thy  power, 

And  Heaven  encircled  and  smiled  on  the  land. 

The  Pilgrims  of  old  an  example  have  given 

Of  mild  resignation,  devotion,  and  love, 
Which  beams  like  the  star  in  the  blue  vault  of 
heaven, 

A  beacon-light  swung  in  their  mansion  above. 
In  church  and  cathedral  we  kneel  in  our  prayer 

Their  temple  and  chapel  were  valley  and  hill 

But  God  is  the  same  in  the  isle  or  the  air, 

And  He  is  the  Rock  that  we  lean  upon  still. 


YEARS   AGO.  183 


YEARS  AGO. 

the  banks  of  that  lone  river, 
Where  the  water-lilies  grow, 
Breathed  the  fairest  flower  that  ever 
Bloomed  and  faded  years  ago. 


How  we  met  and  loved  and  parted, 
None  on  earth  can  ever  know  — 

Nor  how  pure  and  gentle-hearted 
Beamed  the  mourned  one  years  ago ! 

Like  the  stream  with  lilies  laden, 
Will  life's  future  current  flow, 

Till  in  heaven  I  meet  the  maiden 
Fondly  cherished  years  ago. 


Hearts  that  love  like  mine  forget  not ; 

They  're  the  same  in  weal  or  wo  ; 
And  that  star  of  memory  set  not 

IE  the  grave  of  years  ago. 


184          THE  SOLDIER'S  WELCOME  HOME. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WELCOME  HOME. 
(WRITTEN    UPON   THE    RETURN   OP   GENERAL  SCOTT 

FROM    HIS    BRILLIANT    MEXICAN    CAMPAIGN.) 

VICTORIOUS  the  hero  returns  from  the  wars, 
His  brow  bound  with  laurels  that  never  will 

fade, 
While  streams  the  free  standard  of  stripes  and 

of  stars, 

Whose  field  in  the  battle  the  foeman  dismayed. 
When  the  Mexican  hosts  in  their  fury  came  on, 

Like  a  tower  of  strength  hi  his  might  he  arose, 
Where  danger  most  threatened  his  banner  was 

borne, 

Waving  hope  to  his  friends  and  despair  to  his 
foes  1 


The  soldier  of  honor  and  liberty  hail ! 

His  deeds  in  the  temple  of  Fame  are  enrolled  ; 
His  precepts,  like  flower-seeds  sown  by  the  gale, 

Take  root  in  the  hearts  of  the  valiant  and  bold. 


THE    ORIGIN    OF   YANKEE    DOODLE.  185 

The  warrior's  escutcheon  his  foes  seek  to  blot, 
But  vain  is  the  effort  of  partisan  bands  — 

For  freemen  will  render  full  justice  to  SCOTT, 
And  welcome  him  home  with  their  hearts  in 
their  hands. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  YANKEE  DOODLE. 

ONCE  on  a  time  old  JOHNNY  BULL 

Flew  in  a  raging  fury, 
And  swore  that  JONATHAN  should  have 

No  trials,  sir,  by  jury  ; 
That  no  elections  should  be  held 

Across  the  briny  waters  : 
"  And  now/'  said  he,  "  I  '11  tax  the  tea 

Of  all  his  sons  and  daughters." 
Then  down  he  sateen  burly  state, 

And  blustered  like  a  grandee, 
And  in  derision  made  a  tune 

Called  "  Yankee  doodle  dandy.7' 
11  Yankee  doodle7'  —  these  are  facts  — 

"  Yankee  doodle  dandy  ; 
My  son  of  wax,  your  tea  I  '11  tax  — 

You  —  Yankee  doodle  dandy!" 


186 


THE    ORIGIN    OF   YANKEE    DOODLE. 


John  sent  the  tea  from  o'er  the  sea 

With  heavy  duties  rated  ; 
But  whether  hyson  or  bohea, 

I  never  heard  it  stated. 
Then  Jonathan  to  pout  began  — 

He  laid  a  strong  embargo  — 
"I  '11  drink  no  tea,  by  Jove  !"  —  so  he 

Threw  overboard  the  cargo. 
Next  Johnny  sent  an  armament, 

Big  looks  and  words  to  bandy, 
Whose  martial  band,  when  near  the  land, 

Played—  "  Yankee  doodle  dandy.77 
"  Yankee  doodle  —  keep  it  up ! 

Yankee  doodle  dandy  ! 
I  '11  poison  with  a  tax  your  cup  — 

You  —  Yankee  doodle  dandy  !7' 


A  long  war  then  they  had,  in  which 

John  was  at  last  defeated  ; 
And  '•  Yankee  doodle77,  was  the  march 

To  which  his  troops  retreated. 
Young  Jonathan,  to  see  them  fly, 

Could  not  restrain  his  laughter  : 
"  That  tune,"  said  he,  "  suits  to  a  T, 

I  '11  sing  it  ever  after  !" 
Old  Johnny's  face,  to  his  disgrace, 

Was  flushed  with  beer  and  brandy, 


187  THE    ORIGIN1    OF   YANKEE    DOODLE. 

E'en  while  lie  swore  to  sing  no  more 
This  —  "Yankee  doodle  dandy." 

Yankee  doodle  —  ho  !  ha  !  he ! 
Yankee  doodle  dandy  — 

We  kept  the  tune,  but  not  the  tea, 
Yankee  doodle  dandy ! 

I  Ve  told  you  now  the  origin 

Of  this  most  lively  ditty, 
Which  Johnny  Bull  pronounces  "  dull 

And  silly  P  —  what  a  pity  ! 
With  "  Hail  Columbia !"  it  is  sung, 

In  chorus  full  and  hearty  — 
On  land  and  main  we  breathe  the  strain, 

John  made  for  his  tea-party. 
No  matter  how  we  rhyme  the  words, 

The  music  speaks  them  handy, 
And  where 's  the  fair  can't  sing  the  air 

Of  "Yankee  doodle  dandy  !" 
"Yankee  doodle  —  firm  and  true  — 

Yankee  doodle  dandy, 
Yankee  doodle,  doodle  doo  ! 

Yankee  doodle  dandy !" 


188 


LIXES. 


LINES 

ON    THE    BURIAL   OF    MRS.    MARY     L.    WARD,    AT    DALE 
CEMETERY,   SING-SING,    MAY   3,    1853. 

THE  knell  was  tolled  —  the  requiem  sung, 

The  solemn  burial-service  read ; 
And  tributes  from  the  heart  and  tongue 

Were  rendered  to  the  dead. 

The  dead  ?  —  Religion  answers,  "  No  I 
She  is  not  dead  —  She  can  not  die ! 

A  mortal  left  this  vale  of  wo !  — 
An  angel  lives  on  high  1" 

The  earth  upon  her  coffin-lid 

Sounded  a  hollow,  harsh  adieu  I 
The  mound  arose,  and  she  was  hid 

For  ever  from  the  view  J 

For  ever  ?  —  Drearily  the  thought 

Passed,  like  an  ice-bolt,  through  the  brain ; 

When  Faith  the  recollection  brought 
That  we  shall  meet  again. 


NEW-YORK   IN  1826.  189 

The  mourners  wound  their  silent  way 
Adown  the  mountain's  gentle  slope, 

Which,  basking  in  the  smile  of  May, 
Looked  cheerfully  as  hope. 

As  hope  ?  —  What  hope  ?  —  That  boundless  One 

God  in  His  love  and  mercy  gave  ; 
Which  brightens,  with  salvation's  sun, 

The  darkness  of  the  grave. 


NEW-YORK  IN  1826. 

(ADDRESS  OF  THE  CARRIER  OF  THE  NEW-YORK  MIR 
ROR,   ON   THE   FIRST   DAY   OF   THAT    YEAR.) 

AIR  —  "Songs  of  Shepherds  in  Rustical  Roundelays." 

Two  years  have  elapsed  since  the  verse  of  s.  w. 

Met  your  bright  eyes  like  a  fanciful  gem  ; 
With   that   kind   of  stanza  the  muse  will  now 
trouble  you, 

She  often  frolicks  with  one  G.  P.  M. 
As  New  Year  approaches,  she  whispers  of  coaches, 

And  lockets  and  broaches,  without  any  end, 
Of  sweet  rosy  pleasure,  of  joy  without  measure, 

And  plenty  of  leisure  to  share  with  a  friend. 


190  NEW-YORK   IX  1826. 

>T  is  useless  to  speak  of  the  griefs  of  society  — 

They  overtake  us  in  passing  along  ; 
And  public  misfortunes,  in  all  their  variety, 

Need  not  be  told  in  a  holyday  song. 
The  troubles  of  Wall-street,  I  'm  sure  that  you 
all  meet, 

And  they're  not  at  all  sweet — but  look  at 

their  pranks  : 
Usurious  cravings,  and  discounts  and  shavings, 

With  maniac  ravings  and  Lombardy  banks. 

'T  is  useless  to  speak  of  our  dealers  in  cotton  too, 

Profits  and  losses  but  burden  the  lay  ; 
The  failure  of  merchants  should  now  be  forgotten 
too, 

Nor  sadden  the  prospects  of  this  festive  day. 
Though  Fortune  has  cheated  the  hope  near  com 
pleted, 

And  cruelly  treated  the  world  mercantile, 
The  poet's  distresses,  when  Fortune  oppresses, 

Are  greater,  he  guesses — but  still  he  can  smile. 

'T  is  useless  to  speak  of  the  gas-light  so  beautiful, 
Shedding  its  beams  through  "  the  mist  of  the 
night ;» 

Eagles  and  tigers  and  elephants,  dutiful, 
Dazzle  the  vision  with  columns  of  light. 


NEW-YORK    IX  1826.  191 

The  lamb  and  the  lion  —  ask  editor  Tryon, 
His  word  you  '11  rely  on  —  are  seen  near  the 

Park, 
From  which  such  lights  flow  out,  as  wind  can  not 

blow  out, 
Yet  often  they  go  out,  and  all  7s  in  the  dark. 

'T  is  useless  to  speak  of  the  seats  on  the  Battery, 

They  're  too  expensive  to  give  to  the  town  ; 
Then  our  aldermen  think  it  such  flattery, 

If  the  public  have  leave  to  sit  down ! 
Our  fortune  to  harden,  they  show  Castle  Garden — 

Kind  muses,  your  pardon,  but  rhyme  it  I  must  — 
Where  soldiers  were  drilling,  you  now  must  be 
willing 

To  pay  them  a  shilling  —  so  down  with  the  dust. 

'T  is  useless  to  speak  of  our  writers  poetical, 
Of  Halleck  and  Bryant  and  Woodworth,  to 

write  ; 

There  are  others,  whose  trades  are  political  — 
Snowden   and  Townsend    and   Walker    and 

Dwight. 
There's  Lang  the   detector,  and  Coleman  the 

hector, 

And  Noah  the  protector  and  judge  of  the  Jews, 
And  King  the  accuser,  and  Stone  the  abuser, 
And  Grim  the  confuser  of  morals  and  news. 


192  NEW- YORK   IX  1826. 

'T  'is  useless  to  speak  of  the  many  civilities 

Shown  to  FAYETTE  in  this  country  of  late, 
Or  even  to  mention  the  splendid  abilities 
CLINTON  possesses  for  ruling  the  state. 
The  union  of  water  and  Erie's  bright  daughter, 
Since  Neptune  has  caught  her  they'll  sever  no 

more  ; 
And  Greece  and  her  troubles  (the  rhyme  always 

doubles) 

Have  vanished  like  bubbles  that  burst  on  the 
shore. 


'Tis   useless   to  speak   of    Broadway  and   the 
Bowery, 

Both  are  improving  and  growing  so  fast ! 
Who  would  have  thought  that  old  STUYVESANT'S 
dowery 

Would  hold  in  its  precincts  a  play-house  at  last  ? 
Well,  wonder  ne'er  ceases,  but  daily  increases, 

And  pulling  to  pieces,  the  town  to  renew, 
So  often  engages  the  thoughts  of  our  sages, 

That  when  the  fit  rages,  what  will  they  not  do  ? 

'T  is  useless  to  speak  of  the  want  of  propriety 
In  forming  our  city  so  crooked  and  long  ; 

Our  ancestors,  bless  them,  were  fond  of  variety  — 
'T  is  naughty  to  say  that  they  ever  were  wrong  ! 


NEW-YORK    IN  1826.  193 

Tho'  strangers  may  grumble,  and  thro'  the  streets 

stumble, 
Take  care  they  don't  tumble  through  crevices 

small, 
For  trap-doors  we've  plenty,  on  sidewalk  and 

entry, 

And  no  one  stands  sentry  to  see  they  don't 
fall. 


JT  is  useless  to  speak  of  amusements  so  various, 

Of  opera-singers  that  few  understand  ; 
Of  Kean's  reputation,  so  sadly  precarious 

When  he  arrived  in  this  prosperous  land. 
The  public  will  hear  him  —  and  hark  !  how  they 
cheer  him ! 

Though  editors  jeer  him  —  we  all  must  believe 
He  pockets  the  dollars  of  sages  and  scholars  : 

Of  course  then  it  follows  —  he  laughs  in  his 
sleeve. 

'Tis   useless   to  speak  —  but  just  put  on  your 

spectacles, 
Read  about  Chatham,    and  Peale's  splendid 

show  : 
There's  Scudder  and  Dunlap  —  they  both  have 

receptacles 

Which,  I  assure  you,  are  now  all  the  go. 
13 


194  NEW-YORK   IN   1826. 

'T  is  here  thought  polite  too,  should  giants  de 
light  you, 
And  they  should  invite  you,  to  look  at  their 

shapes  ; 

To  visit  their  dwelling,  where  Indians  are  yelling, 
And  handbills  are  telling  of  wonderful  apes ! 


7T  is  useless  to  speak  of  the  din  that  so  heavily 

Fell  on  our  senses  as  midnight  drew  near  ; 
Trumpets  and  bugles  and  conch-shells,  so  cleverly 

Sounded  the  welkin  with  happy  New  Year ! 
With  jewsharps  and  timbrels,  and  musical  thim 
bles, 

Tin-platters  for  cymbals,  and  frying-pans  too  ; 
Dutch-ovens  and  brasses,  and  jingles  and  glasses, 

With  reeds  of  all  classes,  together  they  blew  ! 


Then  since  it  is  useless  to  speak  about  anything 

All  have  examined  and  laid  on  the  shelf, 
Perhaps  it  is  proper  to  say  now  and  then  a  thing 

Touching  the  "  MIRROR"  —  the  day  —  and  my 
self. 
Our  work 's  not  devoted,  as  you  may  have  noted, 

To  articles  quoted  from  books  out  of  print ; 
Instead  of  the  latter,  profusely  we  scatter 

Original  matter  that 's  fresh  from  the  mint. 


NEW-YORK   IN  1826.  195 

Patrons,  I  greet  you  with  feelings  of  gratitude  ; 

Ladies,  to  please  you  is  ever  my  care  — 
Nor  wish  I,  on  earth,  for  a  sweeter  beatitude, 

If  I  but  bask  in  the  smiles  of  the  fair. 
Such  bliss  to  a  poet  is  precious  —  you  know  it  — 

And  while  you  bestow  it,  the  heart  feels  con 
tent  : 
Your  bounty  has  made  us,  and  still  you  will  aid  us, 

But  some  have  not  paid  us  —  we  hope  they'll 
repent ! 


For  holyday  pleasure,  why  these  are  the  times 

for  it  ; 

Pardon,  me,  then,  for  so  trifling  a  lay ; 
This  stanza  shall  end  it,  if  I  can  find  rhymes  for 

it— 

May  you,  dear  patrons,  be  happy  to-day ! 
TW  life  is  so  fleeting,  and  pleasure  so  cheating, 
That  we  are  oft  meeting  with  accidents  here, 
Should  Fate  seek  to  dish  you,  oh  then  may  the 

issue 
Be  what  I  now  wish  you  —  A  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR  ! 


196  THE  HERO'S  LEGACY. 


THE  HERO'S  LEGACY. 

UPON  the  conch  of  death, 

The  champion  of  the  free, 
Gave,  with  his  parting  breath, 

This  solemn  legacy  :  — 
"  Sheathed  be  the  battle-blade, 

"  And  hushed  the  cannons'  thunder  : 
"  The  glorious  UNION  God  hath  made, 

"  Let  no  man  put  asunder ! 
11  War  banish  from  the  land, 

"  Peace  cultivate  with  all ! 
"  United  you  must  stand, 

"  Divided  you  will  fall  1 
"  Cemented  with  our  blood, 

"  The  UNION  keep  unriven !" 
While  freemen  heard  this  counsel  good, 

His  spirit  soared  to  heaven. 


WHAT   CAX    IT   MEAN?  197 


WHAT  CAN  IT  MEAN  ? 
(WRITTEN  FOR  MISS  POOLE,  AND   SUNG  BY  HER  IN 

THE    CHARACTER   OF   COWSLIP.) 

I  'M  much  too  young  to  marry, 

For  I  am  only  seventeen  ; 
Why  think  I,  then,  of  Harry  ? 

What  can  it  mean  —  what  can  it  mean  ? 

Wherever  Harry  meets  me, 

Beside  the  brook  or  on  the  green, 

How  tenderly  he  greets  me ! 
What  can  it  mean  —  what  can  it  mean  ? 

Whene'er  my  name  he  utters, 

A  blush  upon  my  cheek  is  seen  !  — 

His  voice  my  bosom  flutters  !  — 

What  can  it  mean  —  what  can  it  mean  ? 

If  he  but  mentions  Cupid, 

Or,  smiling,  calls  me  "fairy  queen/7 
I  sigh,  and  look  so  stupid  !  — 

What  can  it  mean  —  what  can  it  mean  ? 


198  WHERE  HUDSON'S  WAVE. 

Oh,  mercy  !  what  can  ail  me  ? 

I  'm  growing  wan  and  very  lean  ; 
My  spirits  often  fail  me  ! 

What  can  it  mean  —  what  can  it  mean  ? 

I  'M  NOT  IN  LOVE  !  —  No  !  —  Smother 

Such  a  thought  at  seventeen ! 
I  '11  go  and  ask  my  mother  — 

"  What  can  it  mean  —  what  can  it  mean  P 


WHERE  HUDSON'S  WAVE. 

WHERE  Hudson's  wave  o'er  silvery  sands 

Winds  through  the  hills  afar, 
Old  Cronest  like  a  monarch  stands, 

Crowned  with  a  single  star ! 
And  there,  amid  the  billowy  swells 

Of  rock-ribbed,  cloud-capped  earth, 
My  fair  and  gentle  Ida  dwells, 

A  nymph  of  mountain-birth. 

The  snow-flake  that  the  cliff  receives, 
The  diamonds  of  the  showers, 

Spring's  tender  blossoms,  buds,  and  leaves, 
The  sisterhood  of  flowers, 


AU    REVOIR.  199 

Morn's  early  beam,  eve's  balmy  breeze, 

Her  purity  define ; 
Yet  Ida 's  dearer  far  than  these 

To  this  fond  breast  of  mine. 

My  heart  is  on  the  hills.     The  shades 

Of  night  are  on  my  brow  : 
Ye  pleasant  haunts  and  quiet  glades, 

My  soul  is  with  you  now  ! 
I  bless  the  star-crowned  highlands  where 

My  Ida's  footsteps  roam  : 
0  for  a  falcon's  wing  to  bear 

Me  onward  to  my  home  ! 


AU  KEVOIR. 

LOVE  left  one  day  his  leafy  bower, 

And  roamed  in  sportive  vein, 
Where  Vanity  had  built  a  tower, 

For  Fashion's  sparkling  train. 
The  mistress  to  see  he  requested, 

Of  one  who  attended  the  door  : 
"  Not  home,"  said  the  page,  who  suggested 

That  he  'd  leave  his  card.  —  "  Au  revoir." 

Love  next  came  to  a  lonely  bower  : 
A  maid  who  knew  no  guile, 


200  TO    MY   ABSENT  DAUGHTER. 

Unlike  the  lady  of  the  tower, 

Received  him  with  a  smile. 
Since  then  the  cot  beams  with  his 

Though  often  at  Vanity's  door 
Love  calls,  merely  out  of  politeness, 

And  just  leaves  his  card.  —  "  Au  rewir" 


TO  MY  ABSENT  DAUGHTER. 

GEORGIE,  come    home!  —  Life's    tendrils    cling 

about  thee, 

Where'er  thou  art,  by  wayward  fancy  led. 
We  miss  thee,  love  !  —  Home  is  not  home  with 
out  thee  — 

The  light  and  glory  of  the  house  have  fled  : 
The  autumn  shiver  of  the  linden-tree 
Is  like  the  pang  that  thrills  my  frame  for  thee ! 

Georgie,   come  home!  —  To  parents,    brother, 

sister, 

Thy  place  is  vacant  in  this  lonely  hall, 
Where  shines  the  river  through  the  "Jeannie 

Vista," 

While  twilight  shadows  lengthen  on  the  wall : 
Our  spirits  falter  at  the  close  of  day, 
And  weary  night  moves  tardily  away. 


TO    MY   ABSENT   DAUGHTER.  201 

Georgie,  come  home  !  —  The  winds  and  waves 
are  singing 

The  mournful  music  of  their  parting  song, 
To  soul  and  sense  the  sad  foreboding  bringing, 

Some  ill  detains  thee  in  the  town  so  long  : 
Oh,  that  the  morn  may  dissipate  the  fear, 
And  bring  good  tidings  of  my  daughter  dear ! 


Georgie,  come  home !  —  The  forest  leaves  are 
falling, 

And  dreary  visions  in  thy  absence  come ; 
The  fountain  on  the  hill  in  vain  is  calling 

Thee,  my  beloved  one,  to  thy  woodland  home. 
And  I  imagine  every  passing  breeze 
Whispers  thy  name  among  the  moaning  trees  ! 


Georgie,  come  home!  —  Thy  gentle   look   can 

banish 
The  gathering  gloom  round  this  once  cheerful 

hearth  ; 
In  thy  sweet  presence  all  our  care  will  vanish, 

And  sorrow  soften  into  mellow  mirth. 
Return,  my  darling,  never  more  to  roam  : 
Heart  of  the  Highlands  !  —  Georgie,  dear,  come 
home! 


202  SONG    OF   THE    SEWING-MACHINE. 


SONG  OF  THE  SEWING-MACHINE. 

I  'M  the  Iron  Needle-Woman ! 

Wrought  of  sterner  stuff  than  clay  ; 
And,  unlike  the  drudges  human, 

Never  weary  night  or  day  ; 
Never  shedding  tears  of  sorrow, 

Never  mourning  friends  untrue, 
Never  caring  for  the  morrow, 

Never  begging  work  to  do. 

Poverty  brings  no  disaster  ! 

Merrily  I  glide  along, 
For  no  thankless,  sordid  master, 

Ever  seeks  to  do  me  wrong  : 
No  extortioners  oppress  me, 

No  insulting  words  I  dread  — 
Fve  no  children  to  distress  me 

With  unceasing  cries  for  bread. 

I  'm  of  hardy  form  and  feature, 
For  endurance  framed  aright ; 

I'm  not  pale  misfortune's  creature, 
Doomed  life's  battle  here  to  fight : 


SONG    OF  THE    SEWING-MACHINE.  203 

Mine 's  a  song  of  cheerful  measure, 

And  no  under-currents  flow 
To  destroy  the  throb  of  pleasure 

Which  the  poor  so  seldom  know. 


In  the  hall  I  hold  niy  station, 

With  the  wealthy  ones  of  earth, 
Who  commend  me  to  the  nation 

For  economy  and  worth, 
While  unpaid  the  female  labor, 

In  the  attic-chamber  lone, 
Where  the  smile  of  friend  or  neighbor 

Never  for  a  moment  shone. 


My  creation  is  a  blessing 

To  the  indigent  secured, 
Banishing  the  cares  distressing 

Which  so  many  have  endured  : 
Mine  are  sinews  superhuman, 

Ribs  of  oak  and  nerves  of  steel  — 
Pm  the  Iron  Needle-Woman 

Born  to  toil  and  not  to  feel. 


204  MY   LADY   WAITS   FOR   ME. 


MY  LADY  WAITS  FOR  ME. 

SUGGESTED   BY   A   POPULAR   GERMAN   MELODY. 

MY  lady  waits  !  —  'Tis  now  the  hour 

When  morn  unbars  her  gates !  — 
My  vessel  glides  beneath  the  tower 

Where  now  my  lady  waits. 
Her  signal  flutters  from  the  wall, 

Above  the  friendly  sea  ! 
I  live  but  to  obey  her  call ! 

My  lady  waits  for  me. 
My  lady  waits  —  for  me  she  waits, 
While  morning  opes  her  golden  gates. 

My  lady  waits !  —  No  fairer  flower 

E'er  decked  the  floral  grove, 
Than  she,  the  pride  of  hall  and  bower, 

The  lady  of  my  love  ! 
The  eastern  hills  are  flecked  with  light, 

The  land-breeze  curls  the  sea ! 
By  love  and  truth  sustained,  for  flight, 

My  lady  waits  for  me. 
My  lady  waits  —  for  me  she  waits, 
While  morning  opes  her  golden  gates. 


MUSIC.  205 


MUSIC. 

THE  wind-harp  has  music  it  moans  to  the  tree, 
And  so  has  the  shell  that  complains  to  the  sea, 
The  lark  that  sings  merrily  over  the  lea, 

The  reed  of  the  rude  shepherd  boy ! 
We  revel  in  music  when  day  has  begun, 
When  rock-fountains  gnsh  into  glee  as  they  run, 
And  stars  of  the  morn  sing  their  hymns  to  the 
sun, 

Who  brightens  the  hill-tops  with  joy ! 


The  spirit  of  melody  floats  in  the  air, 
Her  instruments  tuning  to  harmony  there, 
Our  senses  beguiling  from  sorrow  and  care, 

In  blessings  sent  down  from  above ! 
But  Nature  has  music  far  more  to  my  choice  — 
And  all  in  her  exquisite  changes  rejoice ! 
No  tones  thrill  my  heart  like  the  dear  human 
voice 

When  breathed  by  the  being  I  love! 


THE   MILLIONAIRE. 


THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

IN  the  upper  circles 

Moves  a  famous  man 
Who  has  had  no  equal 

Since  the  world  began. 
He  was  once  a  broker 

Down  by  the  Exchange  ; 
He  is  now  a  nabob  — 

Don 't  you  think  it  strange  ? 

In  his  low  back  office, 

Near  the  Bowling  Green, 
With  his  brother  brokers 

He  was  often  seen  ;  — 
Shaving  and  discounting, 

Dabbling  in  the  stocks, 
He  achieved  a  fortune 

Of  a  million  rocks ! 

Next  he  formed  a  marriage 

With  a  lady  fair, 
And  his  splendid  carriage 

Bowled  about  the  square, 


THE   MILLIONAIRE.  207 

Where  his  spacious  mansion 

Like  a  palace  stood, 
Envied  and  admired 

By  the  multitude. 

Then  he  took  the  tour 

Of  the  continent, 
Bearer  of  despatches 

From  the  President : 
A  legation  button 

By  permission  wore, 
And  became  that  worthy, 

An  official  bore. 

Charmed  with  foreign  countries, 

Lots  of  coin  to  spend, 
He  a  house  in  London 

Took  at  the  West  End, 
Where  he  dwelt  a  season, 

And  in  grandeur  shone, 
But  to  all  the  beau  monde 

Utterly  unknown. 

England  then  was  "  foggy, 

And  society 
Too  aristocratic" 

For  his  —  pedigree  : 


208  THE   MILLIONAIRE. 

So  he  crossed  the  channel 
To  escape  the  blues, 

And  became  the  idol 
Of  the  parvenues. 

"  Dear,  delightful  Paris  \" 

He  would  often  say  : 
"  Every  earthly  pleasure 

One  can  have  for  —  pay. 
Wealth  gives  high  position  ; 

But,  when  '  money 's  tight, 
Man  is  at  a  discount, 

And  it  serves  him  right." 

After  years  of  study 

How  to  cut  a  dash, 
He  came  home  embellished 

With  a  huge  —  moustache  ! 
Now  he  is  a  lion, 

All  the  rage  up  town, 
And  gives  gorgeous  parties 

Supervised  by  —  Brown  ! 

The  almighty  dollar 
Is,  no  doubt,  divine, 

And  he  worships  daily 
At  that  noble  shrine  ; 


THE   MILLIONAIRE.  209 

Fashion  is  his  idol, 

Money  is  his  god, 
And  they  both  together 

Rule  him  like  a  rod. 

Books,  and  busts,  and  pictures, 

Are  with  him  a  card  — 
While  abroad  he  bought  them 

Cheaply  —  by  the  yard  ! 
But  his  sumptuous  dinners, 

To  a  turn  quite  right, 
With  hrs  boon  companions, 

Are  his  chief  delight. 

There  his  wit  and  wassail, 

Like  twin-currents  flow 
In  his  newest  stories, 

Published  —  long  ago. 
His  enchanted  hearers 

Giggle  till  they  weep, 
As  it  is  their  duty 

Till  they  — fall  asleep. 


On  his  carriage  panel 
Is  a  blazoned  crest, 

With  a  Latin  motto 
Given  him  —  in  jest. 
14 


210  THE    MILLIONAIRE. 

His  black  coach  and  footman, 

Dressed  in  livery, 
Every  day  at  Stewart's 

Many  crowd  to  see. 


Well  —  in  upper-ten-dom 

Let  him  rest  in  peace, 
And  may  his  investments 

Cent,  per  cent,  increase  : 
Though  on  earth  for  no  one 

Cares  the  millionaire, 
So  does  not  exactly 

His  devoted  —  heir  ! 


There  's  a  useful  moral 

Woven  with  my  rhyme, 
Which  may  be  considered 

At  —  some  other  time  : 
Crockery  is  not  porcelain  — 

It  is  merely  delf — 
And  the  kind  most  common 

Is  the  man  himself. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  H.  SANDFORD.    211 


IN  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  H.  SANDFORD. 

HE  died,  as  he  had  lived,  beloved, 

Without  an  enemy  on  earth  ; 
In  word  and  deed  he  breathed  and  moved 

The  soul  of  honor  and  of  worth  : 
His  hand  was  open  as  the  day, 

His  bearing  high,  his  nature  brave  ; 
And,  when  from  life  he  passed  away, 

Our  hearts  went  with  him  to  the  grave. 

What  desolation  filled  our  home 

When  death  from  us  our  treasure  bore  !  — • 
Oh !  for  the  better  world  to  come 

Where  we  shall  meet  to  part  no  more  ! 
The  hope  of  that  sustains  us  now, 

In  that  we  trust  on  bended  knee, 
While  thus  around  his  faded  brow 

We  twine  the  wreath  of  memory. 


212  SEVENTY-SIX. 


SEVENTY-SIX. 
BEFORE   THE    BATTLE. 

THE  clarion  call  of  liberty 

Rings  on  the  startled  gales  ! 
The  rising  hills  reverberate 

The  rising  of  the  vales  ! 
Through  all  the  land  the  thrilling  shout 

Swift  as  an  arrow  goes ! 
Columbia's  champions  arm  and  out 

To  battle  with  her  foes  ! 

AFTER  THE    BATTLE. 

The  bugle-song  of  victory 

Is  vocal  in  the  air ! 
The  strains,  by  warrior-voices  breathed, 

Are  echoed  by  the  fair  ! 
The  eagle,  with  the  wreath,  blood-bought, 

Soars  proudly  to  the  sun, 
Proclaiming  the  "good  fight  is  fought, 

And  the  great  victory  won !" 


A   PARODY.  213 


A  PARODY. 

ON  old  Long  Island's  sea-girt  shore 

We  caught  a  cod  the  other  day  ; 
He  never  had  been  there  before, 

And  wished  that  he  had  stayed  away. 
We  laid  him  on  the  beach  to  dry, 

Then  served  him  frizzled  on  a  dish, 
A  warning  to  the  smaller  fry, 

As  well  as  all  the  larger  fish. 
0  —  o  —  o  —  o  —  o! 
On  old  Long  Island's  sea-girt  shore 

We  caught  a  cod  the  other  day  ; 
He  never  had  been  there  before, 

And  wished  that  he  had  stayed  away. 


Oh,  >t  was  a  scaly  thing  to  haul 
This  torn-cod  from  his  native  spray, 

And  thus  to  frighten,  one  and  all, 
The  finny  tribe  from  Rock  away  ! 

They  shun  the  fisher's  hook  and  line, 
And  never  venture  near  his  net, 


214  A    PARODY. 

So,  when  at  Rockaway  you  dine, 

Now  d  —  da  thing  but  clams  you  get  1 
0  —  o —  o  —  o  —  o  ! 

On  old  Long  Island's  sea-girt  shore 
We  caught  a  cod  the  other  day  ; 

He  never  had  been  there  before, 

And  wished  that  he  had  stayed  away  1 


Should  critics  at  my  ballad  carp, 

To  them  this  simple  truth  I  '11  say, 
The  grammar 's  quite  as  good  as  Sharp 

Wrote  on  the  beach  of  Rockaway  : 
The  tune 's  the  same  that  Russell  cribbed 

With  the  addition  of  his  O, 
Which  makes  it,  or  the  singer  fibbed, 

Original  and  all  the  go  — 

0  —  o  —  o  —  o  —  o! 
On  old  Long  Island's  sea-girt  shore 

We  caught  a  cod  the  other  day  ; 
He  never  had  been  there  before, 

And  wished  to  God  he  'd  stayed  away ! 


THE    STAG-HUNT.  215 


THE  STAG-HUNT. 

THE  morning  is  breaking  — 

The  stag  is  away  ! 
The  hounds  and  the  hunters 

The  signal  obey ! 
The  horn  bids  the  echoes 

Awake  as  we  go, 
And  nature  is  jocund 

With  hark !  —  tally-ho ! 
Hark  away ! 
Tally-ho  ! 

Hark  forward  !  —  Tantivy  !  — 

The  woodland  resounds 
With  shouts  of  the  sportsmen 

To  cheer  on  the  hounds ! 
The  horse  and  his  rider, 

The  deer  and  his  foe, 
Dash  by  to  the  music 

Of  hark!  — tally-ho! 
(He's  at  bay  !) 
Tally-ho! 


216  DELIVER   US    FROM   EVIL. 


DELIVER  US  FROM  EVIL. 

DELIVER  us  from  evil,  Heavenly  Father ! 

It  still  besets  us  wheresoever  we  go ! 
Bid  the  bright  rays  of  revelation  gather 

To  light  the  darkness  in  our  way  of  wo ! 
Remove  the  sin  that  stains  our  souls  —  for  ever ! 

Our  doubts  dispel  —  our  confidence  restore ! 
Write  thy  forgiveness  on  our  hearts,  and  never 

Let  us  in  vain  petition  for  it  more. 


Release  us  from  the  sorrows  that  attend  us  ! 

Our  nerves  are  torn  —  at  every  vain  we  bleed! 
Almighty  Parent !  with  thy  strength  befriend  us ! 

Else  we  are  helpless  in  our  time  of  need  ! 
Sustain  us,  Lord,  with  thy  pure  Holy  Spirit  — 

New  vigor  give  to  Nature's  faltering  frame  ; 
And,  at  life's  close,  permit  us  to  inherit 

The  hope  that 's  promised  in  the  Saviour's  name, 


THE    UNION.  21*1 


THE  UNION. 

THIS  the  word  beyond  all  others, 

Makes  us  love  our  country  most, 
Makes  us  feel  that  we  are  brothers, 

And  a  heart-united  host !  — 
With  hosanna  let  our  banner 

From  the  house-tops  be  unfurled, 
While  the  nation  holds  her  station 

With  the  mightiest  of  the  world  ! 
Take  your  harps  from  silent  willows, 

Shout  the  chorus  of  the  free  ; 
"  States  are  all  distinct  as  billows, 

Union  one  —  as  is  the  sea !" 


From  the  land  of  groves  that  bore  us 
He 's  a  traitor  who  would  swerve  I 

By  the  flag  now  waving  o'er  us 
We  the  compact  will  preserve  ! 

Those  who  gained  it  and  sustained  it, 
Were  unto  each  other  true, 


218  WE   PART   FOR   EVER. 

And  the  fable  well  is  able 
To  instruct  us  what  to  do  ! 

Take  your  harps  from  silent  willows, 
Shout  the  chorus  of  the  free  ; 

"  States  are  all  distinct  as  billows, 
Union  one  —  as  is  the  sea !" 


WE  PART  FOR  EVER. 

FARE  thee  well  —  we  part  for  ever  1 

All  regrets  are  now  in  vain ! 
Fate  decrees  that  we  must  sever, 

Ne'er  to  meet  on  earth  again. 
Other  skies  may  bend  above  thee, 

Other  hearts  may  seek  thy  shrine, 
But  no  other  e'er  will  love  thee 

With  the  constancy  of  mine. 
Yet  farewell  —  we  part  for  ever ! 

All  regrets  are  now  in  vain ! 
Fate  decrees  that  we  must  sever, 

Ne'er  to  meet  on  earth  again. 
Fare  thee  well ! 

Like  the  shadow  on  the  dial 
Lingers  still  our  parting  kiss ! 

Life  has  no  severer  trial, 
Death  no  pang  to  equal  this. 


COME    TO    ME    IX    CHERRY-TIME.  219 

All  the  world  is  now  before  thee, 

Every  clime  to  roam  at  will, 
But  within  the  land  that  bore  thee, 

One  fond  heart  will  love  thee  still. 
Yet  farewell  —  we  part  for  ever ! 

All  regrets  are  now  in  vain  ! 
Fate  decrees  that  we  must  sever, 

Ne'er  to  meet  on  earth  again. 
Fare  thee  well ! 


COME  TO  ME  IN  CHERRY-TIME. 

COME  to  me  in  cherry -time, 

And,  as  twilight  closes, 
We  will  have  a  merry  time, 

Here  among  the  roses  ! 
When  the  breezes  crisp  the  tide, 

And  the  lindens  quiver, 
In  our  bark  we  '11  safely  glide 

Down  the  rocky  river  ! 

When  the  stars,  with  quiet  ray, 
All  the  hill-tops  brighten, 

Cherry-ripe  we  '11  sing  and  play 
Where  the  cherries  ripen ! 


220        ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  JESSIE  WILLIS. 

Then  come  to  me  in  cherry-time, 
And,  as  twilight  closes, 

We  will  have  a  merry  time 
Here  among  the  roses. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  JESSIE  WILLIS. 

AFTER  life's  eventful  mission, 
In  her  truthfulness  and  worth, 

Like  a  calm  and  gentle  vision 
She  has  passed  away  from  earth. 

Lovely  she  in  frame  and  feature  ! 

Blended  purity  and  grace  !  — 
The  Creator  in  the  creature 

Glowed  in  her  expressive  face  ! 

Angel  of  a  nature  human  1 

Essence  of  celestial  love ! 
Heart  and  soul  of  trusting  woman, 

Gone  to  her  reward  above  ! 

Mourners,  dry  your  tears  of  sorrow  — 
Read  the  golden  promise  o'er  : 

There  will  dawn  a  cheerful  morrow 
When  we  meet  to  part  no  more. 


THANK    GOD    FOR    PLEASANT    WEATHER.        221 


THANK  GOD  FOR  PLEASANT  WEATHER. 

THANK  God  for  pleasant  weather ! 

Chant  it,  merry  rills  ! 
And  clap  jour  hands  together, 

Ye  exulting  hills ! 
Thank  Him,  teeming  valley  ! 

Thank  Him,  fruitful  plain ! 
For  the  golden  sunshine, 

And  the  silver  rain. 

Thank  God,  of  good  the  giver ' 

Shout  it,  sportive  breeze  ! 
Respond,  oh  tuneful  river  ! 

To  the  nodding  trees. 
Thank  Him,  bud  and  birdling ! 

As  ye  grow  and  sing ! 
Mingle  in  thanksgiving 

Every  living  thing ! 

Thank  God,  with  cheerful  spirit, 
In  a  glow  of  love, 


222  THE  v MASTER'S  SONG. 

For  what  we  here  inherit, 
And  our  hopes  above  !  — 

Universal  Nature 
Revels  in  her  birth, 

When  God,  in  pleasant  weather, 
Smiles  upon  the  earth ! 


THE  MASTER'S  SONG. 

WRITTEN    FOR  THE  FREEMASONS  OF  ST.  JOHN'S  LODGE 
NO  1,  NEW  YORK. 

MEMBERS  of  an  order 

Ancient  as  the  earth  ; 
All  within  our  border 

Realize  its  worth. 
Genial  is  the  greeting 

That  awaits  us  there, 
On  the  level  meeting, 

Parting  on  the  square. 
Like  the  workmen  olden, 

Who  our  craft  designed, 
We  the  precept  golden 

Ever  bear  in  mind. 

Masons  never  falter, 
We  each  other  know, 


THE  MASTER'S  SONG.  223 

As  around  the  altar 

Hand  in  hand  we  go  ; 
Loud  hosannas  singing 

To  our  Source  above, 
And  heart-offerings  bringing 

To  the  God  of  Love. 
Like  the  workmen  olden, 

Who  our  craft  designed, 
We  the  precept  golden 

Ever  bear  in  inind. 


There 's  a  mystic  beauty 

In  our  working  plan, 
Teaching  man  his  duty 

To  his  fellow-man  : 
As  a  band  of  brothers, 

Ever  just  and  true, 
Do  we  unto  others 

As  we  'd  have  them  do. 
Like  the  workmen  olden, 

Who  our  craft  designed, 
We  the  precept  golden 

Ever  bear  in  mind. 


224  THE   MISSING    SHIP. 


THE  MISSING  SHIP. 

SHE  left  the  port  in  gallant  style, 

With  sails  and  streamers  full  and  free  ! 
I  watched  her  course  for  many  a  mile 

Far  out  upon  the  distant  sea ! 
At  dusk  she  lessened  to  a  speck, 

And  then  I  could  not  trace  her  more ! 
Sad  hearts  were  beating  on  her  deck, 

Sad  hearts  were  beating  on  the  shore. 

Two  of  the  outward  bound  I  knew, 

One  beautiful,  the  other  brave  — 
The  master  worthy,  and  the  crew 

Born  to  contend  with  wind  and  wave  : 
For  travel  some,  and  some  for  gain, 

And  some  for  health  had  gone  abroad  ; 
Our  prayers  were  with  them  on  the  main, 

God-speed  the  ship  and  all  on  board ! 

That  vessel  never  reached  the  land  ! 

No  tidings  of  her  ever  came  ! 
Those  who  beheld  her  leave  the  strand, 

For  years  in  anguish  heard  her  name ! 


JEANNIE   MARSH.  225 


And  even  now  in  vain  they  try 
To  breathe  it  with  a  tranquil  lip, 

Or  hide  the  moisture  of  the  eye 

While  speaking  of  that  missing  ship. 


JEANNIE  MARSH. 

JEAXNIE  MARSH  of  Cherry  Yalley, 
At  whose  call  the  muses  rally  • 

Of  all  the  nine  none  so  divine 
As  Jeannie  Marsh  of  Cherry  Yalley. 
She  minds  me  of  her  native  scenes, 

Where  she  was  born  among  the  cherries  ; 
Of  peaches,  plums,  and  nectarines, 

Pears,  apricots,  and  ripe  strawberries. 

Jeannie  Marsh  of  Cherry  Yalley, 
In  whose  name  the  muses  rally  ; 

Of  all  the  nine  none  so  divine 
As  Jeannie  Marsh  of  Cherry  Yalley. 
A  sylvan  nymph  of  queenly  grace, 

A  goddess  she  in  form  and  feature  ; 
The  sweet  expression  of  the  place, 

A  dimple  in  the  smile  of  nature. 
15 


226 


LUCY. 

THANKS  for  your  stanzas,  Lucy, 

My  sister  dear  in  song  ! 
How  many  pleasant  fancies 

With  these  sweet  numbers  throng, 
Which,  like  spring's  tuneful  brooklets, 

Trip  merrily  along. 

Sometimes,  my  sportive  Lucy, 
Your  words  will  whirl  around, 

Like  foam-beads  on  the  water, 
Or  rose-leaves  on  the  ground, 

Or  waltzers  in  the  ball-room, 
To  music's  airy  sound. 

There  is,  my  gentle  Lucy, 

In  all  you  say  or  do, 
A  bright  poetic  impulse, 

Original  and  true, 
Which  Art  can  not  acquire, 

And  Nature  gave  to  you. 


EPITAPHS.  22 1 


The  olden  fable,  Lucy, 

My  muse  to  you  would  bring  ; 
The  bird  that  can  but  will  not, 

Should  be  compelled  to  sing ! 
The  story  and  its  moral 

To  modern  memories  cling. 

Awake  the  harp,  clear  Lucy  ! 

Like  the  electric  wire 
It  will  convey  to  millions 

The  heart-absorbing  fire  ! 
And  those  who  lean  to  listen 

Will  linger  to  admire. 


EPITAPH. 

ALL  that 's  beautiful  in  woman, 

All  we  in  her  nature  love, 
All  that's  good  in  all  that's  human, 

Passed  this  gate  to  courts  above. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  JOHN  W.  FRANCIS,  JR. 

HE  was  the  pulse-beat  of  true  hearts, 
The  love-light  of  fond  eyes  : 

When  such  a  man  from  earth  departs, 
'Tis  the  survivor  dies. 


228  NATURE'S  NOBLEMEN. 


NATURE'S  NOBLEMEN. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

***** 

WHEN  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat 

Shall  come  and  go  again, 
A  hundred  years  will  be  complete 

Since  Marion  crossed  the  main, 
And  brought  unto  this  wild  retreat 

His  dark-eyed  wife  of  Spain. 

He  was  the  founder  of  a  free 

And  independent  band, 
Who  lit  the  fires  of  liberty 

The  revolution  fanned  : — 
His  patent  of  nobility 

Read  in  the  ransomed  land  I 

Around  his  deeds  a  lustre  throngs, 

A  heritage  designed 
To  teach  the  world  to  spurn  the  wrongs 

Once  threatened  all  mankind : — 
To  his  posterity  belongs 

The  peerage  of  the  mind. 

***** 


A   WALL-STREET   LYRIC.  329 


A  WALL-STREET  LYRIC. 

JOHN  was  thought  both  rich  and  great — 

Dick  so-so,  but  comfortable  : 
John  lived  at  a  splendid  rate — 

Coach  and  horses  in  his  stable, 
John  could  ride  when  Dick  should  walk — 
(This  excited  people's  talk  !) — 
For  John's  wealth,  Dick's  rugged  health 

Few  would  exchange  if  they  were  able  ! 

Dick  was  friendly  years  ago — 

With  ingratitude  John  paid  him : 
Dick  found  this  was  always  so 

When  John  had  a  chance  to  aid  him. 
John  still  cut  a  brilliant  dash, 
While  he  could  command  the  cash, 
But  for  Dick,  whom  John  would  kick, 
At  last  a  change  of  luck  has  made  him ! 

John,  'tis  said,  is  "  bound"  to  lose 
Lots  by  rail,  and  'bus,  and  cable ! 

And  the  banks  his  notes  refuse, 
Now  they  think  his  state  unstable. 


230  KING    COTTON. 

This  may  be  a  story  strange 
Of  the  bulls  and  bears  on  'change, 
Where  the  truth,  in  age  and  youth, 
Is  often  a  poetic  fable  ! 


KING  COTTON. 

OLD  Cotton  is  king;  boys  —  aha  ! 

With  his  locks  so  fleecy  and  white ! 
He  shines  among  kings  like  a  star ! 

And  his  is  the  sceptre  of  right, 
Boys,  of  right, 

And  his  is  the  sceptre  of  right ! 

Old  Cotton,  the  king,  has  no  care, 
No  queen,  and  no  heir  to  his  throne, 

No  courtiers,  his  triumphs  to  share, 
He  rules  his  dominions  alone, 

Boys,  alone ! 
He  rules  his  dominions  alone  ! 

Old  Cotton,  the  merry  old  boy  ! — 
Like  smoke  from  the  pipe  in  his  mouth 

His  years  glide  away  in  their  joy, 
At  home,  in  the  warm  sunny  south, 

Boys,  the  south, 
At  home,  in  the  warm  sunny  south  ! 


WORDS.  231 

Old  Cotton  will  pleasantly  reign 
When  other  kings  painfully  fall, 

And  ever  and  ever  remain 
The  mightiest  monarch  of  all, 

Boys,  of  all, 
The  mightiest  monarch  of  all ! 

Then  here's  to  old  Cotton,  the  king  ! 

His  true  loyal  subjects  are  we  : 
We'll  laugh  and  we'll  quaff  and  we'll  sing, 

A  jolly  old  fellow  is  he, 
Boys,  is  he, 

A  jolly  old  fellow  is  he ! 


WORDS 

AI>APTEI>  TO  A   SPANISH  MELODY. 

MY  lady  hath  as  soft  a  hand 
As  any  queen  in  fairy-land  ; 
And,  hidden  in  her  tiny  boot, 
As  dainty  and  as  light  a  foot. 

Her  foot ! 
Her  little  hand  and  foot ! 

Xo  star  that  kindles  in  the  sky 
Burns  brighter  than  my  lady's  eye  ; 


232  LOVE   IN    EXILE. 

And  ne'er  before  did  beauty  grace 
So  fair  a  form,  so  sweet  a  face ! 

Her  face ! 
Her  gentle  form  and  face ! 

My  lady  hath  a  golden  heart, 
Free  from  the  dross  of  worldly  art ; 
Which,  in  the  sight  of  heaven  above, 
Is  mine  with  all  its  hoarded  love ! 

Her  love ! 
Her  boundless  wealth  of  love ! 


LOVE  IN  EXILE. 

ADAPTED  TO  A  HUNGARIAN  MELODY. 

MY  heart  I  gave  you  with  my  hand, 

In  brighter  days  than  these, 
In  that  down-trodden  father-land 

Beyond  the  distant  seas, 
Where  you  were  all  the  world  to  me, 

Devoted,  fond,  and  true, 
And  I,  in  our  prosperity, 

Was  all  the  world  to  you ! 
Robbed  by  a  tyrant's  iron  sway, 
We're  banished  from  that  land  away ! 


TO   THE    EVENING    STAR.  233 

Sad  wanderers  from  our  native  home ! 

A  ruler  in  a  foe ! 
An  exiled  caravan  we  roam  ; 

But  hand  in  hand  we  go  ! 
And  thus  whatever  fate  betide 

We  bless  our  lot  in  life, 
Since  no  misfortunes  may  divide 

The  husband  and  the  wife ! 
Here  we  defy  the  tyrant's  will, 
We're  happy  in  each  other  still ! 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

THE  woods  waved  welcome  in  the  breeze, 

When,  many  years  ago, 
Lured  by  the  songs  of  birds  and  bees, 

I  sought  the  dell  below ; 
And  there,  in  that  secluded  spot, 

Where  silver  streamlets  roved, 
Twined  the  green  ivy  round  the  cot 

Of  her  I  fondly  loved. 

In  dreams  still  near  that  porch  I  stand 

To  listen  to  her  vow ! 
Still  feel  the  pressure  of  her  hand 

Upon  my  burning  brow  ! 


234  WELCOME    HOME. 

And  here,  as  in  the  days  gone  by, 
With  joy  I  meet  her  yet, 

And  mark  the  lore-light  of  her  eyes, 
Fringed  with  its  lash  of  jet. 

O  fleeting  vision  of  the  past ! 

From  memory  glide  away  ! 
Ye  were  too  beautiful  to  last, 

Too  good  to  longer  stay  ! 
But  why,  attesting  evening  star, 

This  sermon  sad  recall : 
"  Than  love  and  lose  *tis  better  far 

To  never  love  at  all!" 


WELCOME  HOME. 

MY  Mary's  voice !  —  It  is  the  hour 

She  promised  to  be  here : 
Taught  by  love's  mysterious  power, 

I  know  that  she  is  near. 
I  hear  the  melody  she  sings 

Beneath  our  happy  dome, 
And  now  the  woodland  cheerly  rings 

With  Mary's  welcome  home. 


THE    SYCAMORE    SHADE.  235 

My  Mary's  voice !  —  I  hear  it  thrill 

In  rapture  on  the  gale, 
As  she  comes  gliding  down  the  hill 

To  meet  me  in  the  vale. 
In  all  the  world,  on  land  or  sea, 

Where'er  I  chance  to  roam, 
No  music  is  so  sweet  to  me 

As  Mary's  welcome  home. 


THE  SYCAMORE  SHADE. 

I  KNEW  a  sweet  girl,  with  a  bonny  blue  eye, 

Who  was  born  in  the  shade 

The  wild  sycamore  made, 

Where  the  brook  sang  its  song 

All  the  summer-day  long, 
And  the  moments  went  merrily  by, 
Like  the  birdlings  the  moments  flew  by. 

I  knew  a  fair  maid,  soul-enchanting  in  grace, 

Who  replied  to  my  vow, 

'jNTeath  the  sycamore  bough, 

"  Like  the  brook  to  the  sea, 

Oh,  I  yearn,  love,  for  thee  ln 
And  she  hid  in  my  bosom  her  face  — 
In  my  bosom,  her  beautiful  face. 


236  UP    THE    HUDSON. 

I  have  a  dear  wife,  who  is  ever  my  guide ! 

Wooed  and  won  in  the  shade 

The  wild  sycamore  made, 

Where  the  brook  sings  its  song 

All  the  summer-day  long, 
And  the  moments  in  harmony  glide, 
Like  our  lives  they  in  harmony  glide. 


UP  THE  HUDSON. 

SONG   AND    CHORUS. 

UP  the  Hudson  !  —  Fleetly  gliding 

To  our  haunts  among  the  trees ! 
Joy  the  gallant  vessel  guiding 

With  a  fresh  and  cheerful  breeze ! 
Wives  and  dear  ones  yearn  to  meet  us  - 

(Hearts  that  love  us  to  the  core !) 
And  with  fond  expressions  greet  us 

As  we  near  the  welcome  shore ! 


Ho  !  ye  inland  seas  and  islands  !  — 
(Echo  follows  where  we  go  ! ) 

Ho !  ye  headlands,  hills,  and  highlands ! 
Ho !  ye  Undercliffeans,  ho ! 


ONLY   THINE.  237 

Up  the  Hudson!  —  Rock  and  river, 

Grove  and  glen  pronounce  His  praise, 
Who,  of  every  "  Good  the  Giver," 

Leads  us  through  these  pleasant  ways  !  — 
Care  recedes  like  water-traces 

Of  our  bark,  as  on  we  glide, 
Where  the  hand  of  nature  graces 

Homesteads  on  the  Hudson  side ! 

CHORUS. 

Ho  !  ye  inland  seas  and  islands  I 

(Echo  follows  where  we  go  !)  — 
Ho !  ye  headlands,  hills,  and  highlands  ! 

Ho !  ye  Undercliffeans,  ho  1 


ONLY  THINE. 
I  KNOW  that  thou  art  mine,  my  love, 

I  know  that  thou  art  fair ; 
And  lovelier  than  the  orange-flowers 

That  bind  thy  glossy  hair : 
That  thou  hast  every  gentle  grace 

Which  nature  can  design 

I  know  that  thou  art  mine,  my  love, 
I  know  that  I  am  thine  : 
Yes,  thine,  my  love, 
I'm  thine,  my  love, 
Thine,  thine,  and  only  thine. 


238  EPIGRAMS. 

1  know  that  thou  art  true,  my  love, 

And  welcome  as  the  breeze 
Which  comes,  with  healing  on  its  wings, 

Across  the  summer  seas  : 
That  thou  hast  every  winning  charm 

Which  culture  may  refine  — 
I  know  that  thou  art  mine,  my  love, 

I  know  that  I  am  thine. 
Yes,  thine,  my  love, 
I  'm  thine,  my  love, 

Thine,  thine,  and  only  thine. 


EPIGRAMS. 

ON  READING   GRIMES   ATTACK   UPON   CLINTON. 

'T  is  the  opinion  of  the  town 

That  Grim 's  a  silly  elf : 
In  trying  to  write  Clinton  down, 

He  went  right  down  himself. 

ON  HEARING  THAT   MOUSE  DID  NOT    "  INVENT"  THE  TELEGRAPH. 

FIRST  they  said  it  would  not  do  ; 

But,  when  he  got  through  it, 
Then  they  vowed  they  always  knew 

That  he  didn  't  do  it ! 
Lies  are  rolling  stones,  of  course, 
But  they  can 't  adhere  to  Morse. 


THEATRICAL    ADDRESSES,  239 


ADDRESS 

FOR  THE   BENEFIT    OF   WILLIAM   DUNLAP. 
(SPOKEN  BY  MRS,  SHAKPE) 

WHAT  gay   assemblage    greets   my   wondering 

sight  ! 

What   scene   of    splendor  —  conjured   here   to 
night  ! 

What  voices  murmur,  and  what  glances  gleam! 
Sure  't  is  some  flattering  unsubstantial  dream. 
The  house  is  crowded  —  everybody  's  here 
For  beauty  famous,  or  to  science  deaf; 
Doctors  and  lawyers,  judges,  belles,  and  beaux, 
Poets  and  painters  —  and  Heaven  only  knows 
Whom  else  beside !  —  And  see,  gay  ladies  sit 
Lighting  with  smiles  that  fearful  place,  the  pit— 
(A  fairy  change  —  ah,  pray  continue  it.) 
Gray  heads  are  here  too,  listening  to  my  rhymes, 
Full  of  the  spirit  of  departed  times  ; 
Grave  men  and  studious,  strangers  to  my  sight, 
All  gather  round  me  on  this  brilliant  night. 
And  welcome  are  ye  all.     Not  now  ye  come 
To  speak  some  trembling  poet's  awful  doom  • 


240         THEATRICAL  ADDRESSES. 

With  frowning  eyes  a  "want  of  mind"  to  trace 
In  some  new  actor?s  inexperienced  face, 
Or  e'en  us  old  ones  (oh,  for  shame  !)  to  rate 
"With    study    good  —  in    time  —  but  —  never 

great :" 

Not  like  yon  travelled  native,  just  to  say 
"Folks  in  this  country  can  not  act  a  play  — 
They   can't'  'pon   honor  I"     How   the   creature 

.    starts ! 

His  wit  and  whiskers  came  from  foreign  parts  ! 
Kay,  madam,  spare  your  blushes  —  you  I  mean  — 
There  —  close  beside  him  —  oh,  you  're  full  nine 
teen  — 

You  need  not  shake  your  flowing  locks  at  me  — 
The  man,   your  sweetheart  —  then  I'm  dumb, 

you  see  ; 

I  '11  let  him  off — you'll  punish  him  in  time, 
Or  I  've  no  skill  in  prophecy  or  rhyme  ! 
A  nobler  motive  fills  your  bosoms  now, 
To  wreathe  the  laurel  round  the  silvered  brow 
Of  one  who  merits  it —  if  any  can  — 
The  artist,  author,  and  the  honest  man. 
With  equal  charms  his  pen  and  pencil  drew 
Bright  scenes,  to  nature  and  to  virtue  true. 
Full  oft  upon  these  boards  hath  youth  appeared, 
And  oft  your  smiles  his  faltering  footsteps  cheered; 
But  not  alone  on  budding  genius  smile, 
Leaving  the  ripened  sheaf  unowned  the  while  ; 


THEATRICAL   ADDRESSES.  241 

To  boyish  hope  not  every  bounty  give, 
And  only  youth  and  beauty  bid  to  live. 
Will  you  forget  the  services  long  past  — 
Turn  the  old  war-horse  out  to  die  at  last  ?  — 
When,  his  proud  strength  and  noble  fleetness  o'er, 
His  faithful  bosom  dares  the  charge  no  more  ! 
Ah,  no  !  —  The  sun  that  loves  his  beams  to  shed 
Round  every  opening  floweret's  tender  head, 
With  smiles  as  kind  his  genial  radiance  throws^ 
To  cheer  the  sadness  of  the  fading  rose  : 
Thus  he,  whose  merit  claims  this  dazzling  crowd, 
Points  to  the  past,  and  has  his  claims  allowed  ; 
Looks  brightly  forth,  his  faithful  journey  done, 
And  rests  in  triumph  —  like  the  setting  sun. 


ADDRESS 

FOB  THE   BENEFIT   OF  JAMES    SHERIDAN   KNOWLES. 
(SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  CHAPMAN.) 

NAY,  Mr.  Simpson !  — 7T  is  not  kind — polite  — 
To  shut  me  out,  sir  ?  —  I  'm  in  such  a  fright !  — 
I  can  not  speak  the  lines,  I  'm  sure !  —  Oh,  fie  1 
To  say  I  must !  —  but  if  I  must  —  I  '11  try  ! 

From  him  I  turn  to  these  more  generous  souls, 
The  drama's  patrons  and  the  friends  of  KNOWLES. 
16 


242  THEATRICAL    ADDRESSES. 

Why,  what  a  brilliant  galaxy  is  here ! 
What  stars  adorn  this  mimic  hemisphere  ! 
Names  that  shirie  brightest  on  our  country's  page! 
The  props  of  science  —  literature  —  the  stage  ! 
Above  —  below  —  around  me  —  woman  smiles, 
The  fairest  floweret  of  these  western  wilds  — 
All  come  to  pay  the  tribute  of  their  praise 
To  the  first  dramatist  of  modern  days  : 
And  welcome,  to  the  green  home  of  the  free, 
With  heart  and  hand,  the  bard  of  liberty  ! 

His  is  a  wizard- wand.     Its  potent  spell 
Broke  the  deep  slumber  of  the  patriot  Tell, 
And  placed  him  on  his  native  hills  again, 
The  pride  and  glory  of  his  fellow-men ! 
The  poet  speaks  —  for  Rome  Virginia  bleeds  ! 
Bold  Caius  Gracchus  in  the  forum  pleads  ! 
Alfred  —  the  Great,  because  the  good  and  wise, 
Bids  prostrate  England  burst  her  bonds  and  rise ! 
Sweet   Bess,   the   Beggar's  Daughter,  beauty's 

queen, 

Walks  forth  the  joy  and  wonder  of  the  scene ! 
The    Hunchback    enters  —  kindly  —  fond  —  se 
vere — 
And  last,  behold  the  glorious  Wife  appear ! 

These  are  the  bright  creations  of  a  mind 
Glowing  with  genius,  chastened  and  refined. 


THEATRICAL   ADDRESSES.  243 

In  all  he 's  written,  be  this  praise  his  lot : 

"  Not  one  word,  dying,  would  he  wish  to  blot  ! 

Upon  my  life  't  is  no  such  easy  thing 
To  laud  the  bard,  unless  an  eagle's  wing 
My  muse  would  take  ;  and,  fixing  on  the  sun 
Her  burning  eye,  soar  as  his  own  has  done ! 

Did  you  speak,  sir?  —  What,  madam,  did  he 

say? 

Wrangling  ! — for  shame  ! — before  your  wedding- 
day  ! 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  by  thine  eyes  of  blue, 
And  vermeil  blushes,  I  did  not  mean  you ! 
Bless  me,  what  friends  at  every  glance  I  see ! 
Artists  and  authors  —  men  of  high  degree  ; 
Grave  politicians,  who  have  weighed  each  chance, 
The  next  election,  and  the  war  with  France ; 
Doctors,  just  come  from  curing  half  a  score  — 
And  belles,  from  killing  twice  as  many  more  ; 
Judges,  recorders,  aldermen,  and  mayors, 
Seated,  like  true  republicans,  down  stairs ! 
All  wear  a  glow  of  sunshine  in  their  faces 
Might  well  become  Apollo  and  the  graces, 
Except  one  yonder,  with  a  look  infernal, 
Like  a  blurred  page  from  Fanny  Kemble's  Journal ! 

But  to  my  task.     The  muse,  when  I  began, 
Spoke  of  the  writer  —  welcome  ye  the  man. 


244  THEATRICAL    ADDRESSES. 

Genius,  at  best,  acts  but  an  humble  part, 
Unless  obedient  to  an  honest  heart. 
And  such  a  one  is  his,  for  whom,  to-night, 
These  walls  are  crowded  with  this  cheering  sight. 
Ye  love  the  poet  —  oft  have  conned  him  o'er, 
Knew  ye  the  man,  ye  7d  love  him  ten  times  more. 
Ye  critics,  spare  him  from  your  tongue  and  quill ; 
Ye  gods,  applaud  him  ;  and  ye  fops  —  be  still ! 


ADDRESS 

FOR   THE   BENEFIT    OF   HENRY    PLACIDE. 
(SPOKEN  BY  MBS.  HILSON.) 

THE  music's  done.     Be  quiet,  Mr.  Durie ! 
Your  bell  and  whistle  put  me  in  a  fury  ! 
Don't  ring  up  yet,  sir  —  I've  a  word  to  say 
Before  the  curtain  rises  for  the  play ! 

Your  pardon,  gentlefolks,  nor  think  me  bold, 
Because  I  thus  our  worthy  prompter  scold  : 
'T  was  all  feigned  anger.     This  enlightened  age 
Requires  a  ruse  to  bring  one  on  the  stage ! 

Well,  here  I  am,  quite  dazzled  with  the  sight 
Presented  on  this  brilliant  festal  night ! 


THEATRICAL    ADDRESSES.  245 

Where'er  I  turn,  whole  rows  of  patrons  sit  — 
The  house  is  full  —  box,  gallery,  and  pit ! 
Who  says  the  New- York  public  are  unkind  ? 
I  know  them  well,  and  plainly  speak  my  mind  — 
"It  is  our  right,"  the  ancient  poet  sung  — 
He  knew  the  value  of  a  woman's  tongue  ! 
With  this  I  will  defend  ye  —  and  rehearse 
Five  glorious  Ads  of  yours  —  in  modern  verse  ; 
Each  one  concluding  with  a  generous  deed 
For  Dunlap,  Cooper,  Woodworth,  Knowles,  Pla 
cid  e  ! 

?T  was  nobly  done,  ye  patriots  and  scholars ! 
Besides  —  they  netted  twenty  thousand  dollars  ! 
"A  good  round  sum,"  in  these  degenerate  times — 
"  This  bank-note  world,"  so  called  in  Halleck's 

rhymes ; 

And  proof  conclusive,  you  will  frankly  own, 
In  liberal  actions  New- York  stands  alone. 


Though  roams  he  oft  'mong  green  poetic  bowers, 
The  actor's  path  is  seldom  strewn  with  flowers. 
His  is  a  silent,  secret,  patient  toil  — 
While  others  sleep,  he  burns  the  midnight  oil  — 
Pores  o'er  his  books  —  thence  inspiration  draws, 
And  waste's  his  life  to  merit  your  applause  ! 
0  ye,  who  come  the  laggard  hours  to  while, 
And  with  the  laugh-provoking  muse  to  smile, 


246  THEATRICAL   ADDRESSES. 

Remember  this  :  the  mirth  that  cheers  you  so, 
Shows  but  the  surface  —  not  the  depths  below ! 
Then  judge  not  lightly  of  the  actor's  art, 
Who  smiles  to  please  you,  with  a  breaking  heart ! 
Neglect  him  not  in  his  hill-climbing  course, 
Nor  treat  him  with  less  kindness  than  your  horse  : 
Up  hill,  indulge  him  —  down  the  deep  descent, 
Spare  —  and  don't  urge  him  when  his  strength  is 

spent  ; 

Impel  him  briskly  o'er  the  level  earth, 
But  in  the  stable  don't  forget  his  worth  ! 
So  with  the  actor  —  while  you  work  him  hard, 
Be  mindful  of  his  claims  to  your  regard. 

But  hold !  —  methinks  some  carping  cynic  here 
Will  greet  my  homely  image  with  a  sneer. 
Well  —  let  us  see  —  I  would  the  monster  view  : 
Man  with  umbrageous  whiskers,  is  it  you  ? 
Ah,  no  —  I  was  mistaken  :  every  brow 
Beams  with  benevolence  and  kindness  now  ; 
Beauty  and  fashion  all  the  circles  grace  — 
And  scowling  Envy  here  were  out  of  place  1 
On  every  side  the  wise  and  good  appear-— 
The  very  pillars  of  the  State  are  here  ! 
There  sit  the  doctors  of  the  legal  clan  ; 
There  all  the  city's  rulers,  to  a  man  ; 
Critics  and  editors,  and  learned  M.  D.'S, 
Buzzing  and  busy,  like  a  hive  of  bees ; 


THEATRICAL   ADDRESSES.  241 

And  there,  as  if  to  keep  us  all  in  order, 

Our  worthy  friends  the  Mayor  and  the  Recorder ! 

Well,  peace  be  with  you!    Friends  of  native 

worth, 

Yours  is  the  power  to  call  it  into  birth ; 
Yours  is  the  genial  influence  smiles  upon 
The  budding  flowerets  opening  to  the  sun. 
They  all  around  us  court  your  fostering  hand  — 
Rear  them  with  care,  in  beauty  they'll  expand — 
With  grateful  odors  well  repay  your  toil, 
Equal  to  those  sprung  from  a  foreign  soil ; 
And  more  Placides  bask  in  your  sunshine  then, 
The  first  of  actors  and  the  best  of  men. 


THE 

MAID     OF     SAXONY; 

OR, 

WHO'S   THE   TRAITOR? 

AN 

(Optra  in  €ljm  §tts. 

FOUNDED   UPON   HISTORICAL  EVENTS  IN  THE   LIFE   OF  FREDERICK 

THE  SECOND  OF  PRUSSIA,  RELATED  BY  MISS   EDGEWORTH, 

ZIMMERMANN,   LATROBE,    AND   OTHER   WRITERS. 

THE  MUSIC 

With  the  exception  of  three  German  Melodies,  and  the  characteristic  Introduction 
COMPOSED    BY 

CHARLES    E.    HORN. 
THE  LIBRETTO  BY  GEORGE  P.  MORRIS. 


The  Scenery  by.. Messrs.  HILLYARD,  WHEATLEY,  and  Assistants. 

The  Costumes  by M.  Louis. 

The  Properties  and  Decorations  by M.  DEJONGE. 

The  Machinery  by  M.  SPEYERS! 

The  Orchestra  increased,  and  the  Choruses  full  and  effective. 

Leader  of  the  Orchestra  and  Chorus-Master M.  CHUBB. 

The  Music  produced  under  the  direction  of Mr.  C.  E.  HORN! 

Stage  Manager Mr.  BARRY. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


FREDERICK  II.  (King  of  Prussia) Mr.  CHIPPENDALE. 

COUNT  LANISKA  (his  Aid-de-Camp,  a  Polt) Mr.  MANVERS. 

ALBERT  (a  young  Saxon  student-at-laic} Mr.  FREDERICKS. 

KARL  (a  Hungarian,  Packer  to  the  Royal  Factory}  Mr.  C.  E.  HORN. 

WEDGEWOOD  (an  English  Merchant) Mr.  PLACIDE. 

BARON  ALTENBERG  (Attorney -General) Mr.  BARRY. 

JUDGE  OF  THE  COURT Mr.  CLARK. 

HANS  (an  Innkeeper) Mr.  ANDREWS. 

HAROLD  (an  old  Sergeant  of  Grenadiers) Mr.  SEGUIN. 

CORPORAL  OP  GRENADIERS  (old  ma?/) Mr.  FISHER. 

BURGOMASTER  Mr.  POVEY. 

JAILOR  OF  THE  CASTLE  SPANDAU Mr.  BELLAMY. 

HERALD Mr.  NELSON. 

FIRST  GENERAL Mr.  KING. 

SECOND  GENERAL Mr.  GALLOT. 

Staff-Officers,  Officers  of  State,  Workmen  of  the  Factory,  Citizens, 
Advocates,  Jurymen,  Grenadiers,  Peasants,  Travellers,  Servants, 
etc. 

COUNTESS  LANISKA Mrs.  BARRY. 

FRED  ERICA  (her  Daughter) Mrs.  KNIGHT. 

SOPHIA  MANSFIELD  (the  Saxon  Maid)  Mrs.  C.  E.  HORN. 

GERTRUDE Miss  MARY  TAYLOR. 

Ladies  of  the  Court,  Factory  Girls,  Peasants,  etc. 


SCENE  —  Berlin  and  Potsdam. 

TIME  —  Latter  part  of  the  reign  of  Frederick  the  Great. 


THE     MAID     OF     SAXONY. 
ACT    I. 

SCENE    I. 

Inside  of  a  German  Inn,  on  the  road  to  Berlin. 
Fire  and  candles  nearly  extinguished.  Clock 
in  the  corner,  marking  the  hour  of  ten.  HANS 
seated  in  an  arm-chair,  asleep.  Music.  The 
curtain  rises  to  the  opening  symphony.  HANS 
yawns  in  his  sleep. 

(Enter  GERTRUDE.) 

GERTRUDE. 

Ho !  Hans ! — Why,  Hans ! — You  Hans,  I  say ! 
Awake !  —  Here  ?ll  be  the  deuce  to  pay  ! 
For  coming  guests  get  fire  and  lights, 
And  help  me  put  the  room  to  rights  ! 

(HANS  stretches  and  yawns, ,) 
Hans !  —  I  've  no  patience  with  the  lout ! 
What,  Hans,  on  earth  are  you  about  ? 

(Shakes  HANS,  who  yawns  again .) 


252  THE   MAID   OF   SAXONY  J    OR,  [Aor  I 

Did  ever  room  look  so  forlorn  ? 
Hans  1  —  Hark  !  I  hear  the  postman's  horn  ! 
( Sounds  of  a  horn  in  the  distance.  HANS  stretches, 
yawns,  and  rises.) 

HANS. 

What  der  tuyvel  is  der  matter, 
Dus  you  chitter — chatter — clatter  ? 

GERTRUDE  (aside.) 
His  impudence  can  not  be  borne ! 

HANS. 

What's  dat  I  hear  ? 

GERTRUDE. 

The  postman's  horn ! 

(Sounds  of  horn  again.) 
Whose  notes  o'er  moor  and  mountain  flung — 

HANS. 

Are  not  so  noisy  as  your  tongue  ! 
(Horn  sounds  as  though  approaching;  whips 
are  heard,  and  the  post-coach  is  supposed  to 
arrive  outside  with  Passengers.  Enter  the 
Attendants,  with  portmanteaus,  carpet-bags, 
etc.,  and  Passengers.) 

CHORUS. 

Rejoice  !  rejoice  !  we're  safe  and  sound, 
And  shelter  for  the  night  have  found, 
Within  this  snug  abode  ! 


SCENE  1.]  WHO'S   THE  TRAITOR  ?  253 

The  dust  may  rise,  the  rain  may  fall — 
Beneath  this  roof  we'll  smile  at  all 
The  dangers  of  the  road ! 

SOLO. 

Then  let  the  cheerful  board  be  spread  ; 
To  supper  first,  and  then  to  bed, 
Till  birds  their  songs  begin  : 
Thus,  whether  sleeping  or  awake, 
The  weary  traveller  will  take 
His  comfort  at  his  inn. 

CHORUS. 
Rejoice  !  rejoice  !  we're  safe,  etc. 

[Exit  Passengers  and  Attendants. 

GERTRUDE. 

Where  in  the  world  are  all  these  people  o-oin^ 
to,  Hans? 

HANS. 

To  Berlin,  to  shee  der  troops.  Frederick  mus 
ters  dem  to-morrow  at  der  capital.  But  why  don't 
you  attend  to  der  guest  ? 

GERTRUDE. 

Why  don't  you  1  You  are  not  fit  to  keep  an 
inn,  Hans. 

HANS. 

I  was  not  prought  up  to  it ;  mine  pishiness  was 
to  keep  a  paint-shop,  and  shell  der  colors  to  der 
artists. 


254  THE    MAID   OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 

GERTRUDE. 

Don't  stand   here  chattering  about  your  fine 
colors  —  but  look  to  the  guests  — 

HANS. 
Yaw,  yaw,  mein  fraulein. 

ALBERT  (without.) 

Ho !  landlord! — Waiters,  look  to  our  luggage  ! 

WEDGEWOOD  (speaking  as  he  enters.) 
If  it  is  convenient. 
(Enter  ALB'T  and  WEDGEWOOD  in  cloaks,  briskly) 

GERTRUDE. 

This  way,  gentlemen,  this  way. 

ALBERT. 

Two  bed-chambers,  landlord,  as  soon  as  possi 
ble. 

HANS. 

Yaw,  mynheer. 

(Gives  directions  to  Attendant,  who  exits) 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Landlady,  take  care  of  my  coat  and  stick,  and 
here's  something  for  your  pains. 

GERTRUDE. 

Yes,  sir. 

WEDGEWOOD  (looking  at  her) 
What  a  pretty  girl. 


SCENE  L]  WHO 's   THE    TRAITOR?  255 

GERTRUDE. 

Is  that  all,  sir  ? 

WEDGEWOOD  '(aside  to  GERTRUDE.) 

No,  that's  not  all.  (Kisses  her.)  Take  this  into  the 
bargain,  you  jade  ! 

GERTRUDE  (courtesies) 

Thank  you,  sir.  (Aside.)  What  a  nice,  queer 
old  gentleman  ! 

HAXS  (taking  her  away  passionately.) 
What's  clat  to  you  ?     Give  me  der  tings  (takes 
them)     You  do  noding  but  ogle  mit  der  young 
folks,  and  flirt  mit  der  old  ones ! 

GERTRUDE. 

Oh,  you  jealous  brute  !  \Exit  in  a  huff. 

WEDGEWOOD  (noticing  her.) 
Nice  girl  that — odd,  too,  that  she  should  have 
married  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather ! 

HANS  (aside.) 

Dat  queer  chap  in  der  brown  vig  I'm  sure  is  a 
gay  deceiver,  or  he  would  not  admire  mine  vife 
so  much.  I  must  have  mine  eyes  about  me. 

[Exit. 

WEDGEWOOD  (noticing  HANS  and  GERTRUDE.^ 
Odd,  very  odd,  very  odd  indeed  !  But,  now  that 
we  are  alone,  pray  continue  the  narrative  you 
commenced  in  the  coach  —  if  it  is  convenient. 


256  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 


ALBERT. 


Right  willingly.  Frederick,  after  liis  conquest 
of  Saxony,  transported  by  force  several  manufac 
turers  from  Dresden  to  Berlin,  where  he  has  es 
tablished  a  Porcelain  Factory — 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Separated  from  their  friends,  home,  and  coun 
try,  these  unfortunate  people  are  compelled  to 
continue  their  labors  for  the  profit  and  glory  of 
their  conqueror  —  I  know  it  —  go  on  — 

ALBERT. 

Among  those  in  bondage  is  Sophia  Mansfield — 

WEDGEWOOD. 

I  have  heard  of  her  : —  a  young,  beautiful,  and 
singularly-gifted  girl  — 

ALBERT. 

Several  pieces  of  her  design  and  modelling 
were  shown  to  the  king,  when  he  was  at  Meissen, 
in  Saxony ;  and  he  was  so  struck  with  their  beau 
ty,  that  he  determined  to  convey  the  artist  with 
other  prisoners,  to  his  capital  — 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Where  he  issued  his  royal  edict,  compelling  the 
girls  of  the  factory  to  marry  Prussian  soldiers. 
Unfeelingly  odd ! 


SCENE  L]  WHO  *S    THE    TRAITOR  ?  251 

ALBERT. 

Sophia  has  yet  escaped  this  tyranny.  The  wer- 
seer,  however,  has  demanded  her  hand  ;  but  I 
shall  be  in  time  to  thwart  his  purposes. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

But,  to  effect  that,  you  must  also  thwart  the 
purposes  of  Frederick  himself,  who,  I  understand, 
is  as  stubborn  as  he  is  bold. 

ALBERT. 

Count  Laniska  has  won  Sophia's  affections,  and 
love  is  a  power  that  can  not  be  controlled. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Veritably  odd ! 

ALBERT. 

You  are  on  your  way  to  the  factory — have  you 
free  admission  for  yourself  and  friends  ? 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Indubitably. 

ALBERT. 

Then  we  will,  with  your  permission,  visit  it 
together.  (Aside.)  In  this  disguise,  and  under 
the  name  of  Worrendorf,  I  may  pass  unnoticed. 

(^Re-enter  HANS,  with  trunks,  etc.,  and  GERTRUDE.) 
17 


258  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [Acr.   I. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

It  is  growing  late.  After  the  fatigues  of  the 
journey,  I  need  repose. 

j  ALBERT. 

And  so  do  I.     Good-night ! 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Good-night !  \Exit  ALBERT  ;  GERTRUDE  takes 
a  lighted  candle  from  the  table  and  shows  the 
way;  WEDGEWOOD  takes  a  light.]  Do  you  rise 
early,  friend  ? 

HANS. 

No,  mynheer  ;  but  mine  vife  does — 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Then  tell  your  wife  to  knock  at  my  door  early 
in  the  morning. 

HANS  (eyeing  him  and  looking  suspiciously.) 
So  ho  !  I  smoke  you ! 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Then  keep  farther  off  with  your  confounded 
pipe,  you  Dutch  abomination. 

HANS  (lays  his  finger  on  his  nose.) 
And  I  schmells  a  rat  ! 

WEDGEWOOD  (looking  around.) 
The  devil  you  do  !     Where  ? — 


SCENE  II.]  WHO  's   THE    TRAITOR  ?  259 

HANS. 

Se  I  vill  knock  at  yourn  door  myself — 

WEDGE  WOOD. 

If  it  is  convenient.  (Exit  HANS.)  A  pretty 
house  I  have  got  into  ! — Smokes  me  ! — smells  a 
rat  !— The^/%  Dutchman  !  [Exit. 


SCENE    II. 

An  open  cut  wood  near  Berlin.  Tents  in  the 
distance.  A  military  outpost.  Enter  HAROLD, 
Corporal,  and  a  party  of  Soldiers,  in  military 
undress. 

SONG. 

The  life  for  me  is  a  soldier's  life  ! 

With  that  what  glories  come  ! 
The  notes  of  the  spirit-stirring  fife, 

The  roll  of  the  battle-drum  ; 
The  brilliant  array,  the  bearing  high, 

The  plumed  warriors'  tramp  ; 
The  streaming  banners  that  flout  the  sky, 

The  gleaming  pomp  of  the  camp. 


260  THE   MAID   OF    SAXONY  J    OR,  [ACT  I. 

CHORUS. 

A  soldier's  life  is  the  life  for  me  ! 

With  that  what  glories  come  ! 
The  notes  of  the  spirit-stirring  fife, 

The  roll  of  the  battle-drum  ! 

HAROLD. 

So,  corporal,  at  last  we  are  to  have  a  muster 
of  the  combined  forces  of  the  kingdom. 

CORPORAL. 

Yes,  the  king  is  never  so  happy  as  when  he 
has  all  his  children,  as  he  calls  us,  about  him. 

HAROLD. 

And  plaguy  good  care  he  takes  of  his  children ! 
He  looks  after  our  domestic  as  well  as  our  public 
interests  !  It  was  a  strange  wiiim  in  old  Fritz 
to  offer  each  of  his  soldiers  one  of  the  factory 
girls  for  a  wife  ! 

CORPORAL. 

I  wonder  the  old  hero  does  not  marry  some  of 
them  himself. 

HAROLD. 

He  would  rather  look  after  his  soldiers  than 
meddle  with  the  fancies  of  the  women — and  at 
his  age  too ! 


SCENE  II.]  WHO 's   THE   TRAITOR?  261 

CORPORAL. 

Nonsense  !  The  king  is  a  boy — a  mere  boy — 
of  seventy  !  But  he  does  meddle  with  the  women 
sometimes. 

HAROLD. 

Say  yon  so  ? 

CORPORAL. 

Ay,  and  old  ones  too.  It  was  but  the  other 
day  that  he  pensioned  a  poor  widow,  whose  only 
son  fell  in  a  skirmish  at  his  side.  Heaven  bless  his 
old  cocked  hat ! 

HAROLD 

Yet  is  it  not  singular  that  one  so  mindful  of 
the  rights  of  old  women  should  compel  the  young 
ones  to  toil  as  they  do  in  the  factory  ? 

CORPORAL. 

Tush,  tush,  man ! —  that's  none  of  your  con^ 
cern,  nor  mine.  What  have  we  to  do  with  state 
affairs  ? 

HAROLD. 

Right,  corporal  ;  and  it 's  not  worth  while  for 
us  to  trouble  our  heads  about  other  people's 
business. 

CORPORAL. 

You're  a  sensible  fellow — 


262  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  L 

HAROLD. 

Right  again  ;  and  I  would  return  the  com 
pliment  if  you  did  not  wear  such  a  flashy  watch- 
riband  (looks  at  it.) 

CORPORAL. 

That 's  personal ! 

HAROLD. 

I  mean  it  to  be  so.  What  the  devil  do  you 
wear  it  for  ? 

CORPORAL. 

To  gratify  a  whim.  I  like  this  riband.  It  was 
a  present  from  an  old  sweetheart  of  mine.  Look 
what  a  jaunty  air  it  gives  one  !  —  and  where *s 
the  harm  of  keeping  up  appearances  ?  — 

HAROLD. 

What  silly  vanity !  But  let  me  give  you  a 
piece  of  advice  :  beware  of  the  scrutiny  of  the 
king —  he  has  an  eye  like  a  hawk,  old  as  he  is  ; 
and  if  he  should  happen  to  spy  your  watch 

riband  — 

CORPORAL. 

Pooh,  pooh! — he  would  not  notice  such  a 
trifle.  —  But  who  comes  yonder  ?  That  Hun 
garian  Karl.  Let  ?s  make  way  for  him. — He  7s  a 
fellow  I  don't  fancy.  What  a  man  to  woo  and 
win  Sophia  Mansfield ! 


SCENKIL]  WHO'S    THE    TRAITOR?  263 

HAROLD. 

He'll   never   win   her,  woo   her   as  he  may. 
Count  Laniska  will  look  to  that. 
[HAROLD,  Corporal  and  party  retire  into  tents. 

(Enter  KARL,  in  great  agitation.) 

SONG KARL. 

Confusion  !  —  Again  rejected 

By  the  maid  I  fondly  love  ! 
Illusion  !  —  In  soul  dejected  ! 

Jealous  fears  my  bosom  move. 
Dear  Sophia ! — Hope's  deceiver ! 

Whom  I  love  ;  but  love  in  vain ! 
Can  I  to  my  rival  leave  her  ? 

No  —  the  thought  distracts  my  brain  1 

Love  —  revenge !  —  Oh,  how  I  falter  ! 

Passion's  throes  unman  me  quite  : 
Now  he  leads  her  to  the  altar  — 

How  I  tremble  at  the  sight ! 
Hold,  tormentors !  cease  to  tear  me ! 

All  in  vain  I  gasp  for  breath ! 
Hated  rival  —  scorn  I  bear  thee 

Which  can  only  end  in  death  ! 

(HAROLD  advances.) 

HAROLD. 

Karl,  what  ails  you  ? 


264  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  |    OR,  [ACT  I 

KARL  (aside.) 

Observed!  (To  HAROLD.)  An  infirmity  I've 
had  from  my  youth  upward.  I  shall  be  better 
presently. 

HAROLD. 

You  tremble  like  one  with  the  ague. 
KARL. 

We  Hungarians  have  not  your  tough  constitu 
tion,  comrade  :  besides,  the  weather  is  chilly  — 
it  freezes  me  to  the  bone. 

HAROLD. 

It  Js  the  weather  within,  Karl.  Repair  to  the 
factory,  and  sun  yourself  in  the  bright  eyes  of 
Sophia  Mansfield !  That  will  warm  you,  espe 
cially  if  Count  Laniska  happens  to  be  by  to  stir 
up  the  fire  of  your  jealousy  —  eh  ? 

KARL. 
You  have  a  sharp  wit,  which  I  lack,  comrade. 

HAROLD  (sarcastically.) 

And  I  Ve  another  thing  which  you  lack  — 
comrade. 

KARL. 

What  may  that  be  ? 

HAROLD. 

A  clear  conscience,  my  old  boy  ! 

[Exit  HAROLD  into  tent. 


SCENE  II.J  WHO 's    THE    TRAITOR?  265 

KARL. 

Does  he  suspect  ?  No  —  sleeping  and  waking 
I  have  concealed  this  (his  arm)  damning  evi 
dence  of  my  guilt.  The  mark  of  Cain  I  bear 
about  me  is  known  to  none,  and  the  secret  dies 
with  me.  —  For  that  young  Pole,  Sophia  scorns 
me  ;  but  let  him  beware !  —  My  revenge,  though 
slow,  is  sure ! 

(KARL  turns  to  go  ;  but  perceiving  Count  LAN- 
ISKA  advancing,  he  retires  into  a  tent.  Enter 
LANISKA,  who  notices  KARL  in  the  distance.) 

SONG LANISKA. 

When  I  behold  that  lowering  brow, 

Which  indicates  the  mind  within, 
I  marvel  much  that  woman's  vow 

A  man  like  that  could  ever  win ! 
Yet  it  is  said,  in  rustic  bower, 

(The  fable  I  have  often  heard) 
A  serpent  has  mysterious  power 

To  captivate  a  timid  bird. 

This  precept  then  I  sadly  trace  — 
That  love's  a  fluttering  thing  of  air  ; 

And  yonder  lurks  the  viper  base, 
Who  would  my  gentle  bird  ensnare ! 


266  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  J    OR,  [ACT  L 

>T  was  in  the  shades  of  Eden's  bower 
This  fascination  had  its  birth, 

And  even  there  possessed  the  power 
To  lure  the  paragon  of  earth ! 

(At  the  conclusion  of  the  song,  KARL  is  about  to 
retire.     LANISKA  addresses  him.) 

COUNT. 

Come  hither,  Karl. 

KARL. 

I  await  upon  your  leisure,  count. 

COUNT. 

I  would  have  some  words  with  you. 

KARL. 

You  may  not  relish  the  frankness  of  my  manner. 

COUNT. 

Indeed  ! 

KARL. 

Look  you,  Count  Latiiska  ;  I  am  a  plain,  blunt, 
straight-forward,  rough-spoken  fellow,  and  a  sol 
dier  like  yourself.  I  know  my  rights  ;  and,  know 
ing,  will  maintain  them.  It  was  by  the  king's 
permission  and  authority  that  I  chose  Sophia 
Mansfield  for  my  bride  — 

COUNT. 

She  has  rejected  you. 


SCENE  II.]  WHO 's   THE   TRAITOR  f  261 

KARL. 

What  has  that  to  do  with  the  matter  ?  Wo 
men  are  often  perverse,  and  not  always  the  best 
judges  of  their  own  welfare  ;  and  you  know  she 
must  be  mine  — 

COUNT. 

Must?-— 

KARL. 

Yes,  must.  I  have  the  king's  promise,  and 
Frederick  was  never  known  to  break  his  word. 

COUNT. 

You  surely  would  not  marry  her  against  her 
will  ? 

KARL. 

Why  not  ?  Sophia  is  the  only  woman  I  ever 
loved  :  and  now  that  I  have  her  sure,  think  you 
I  will  resign  her  ? 

COUNT. 

And  think  you  the  king  will  force  an  angel  into 
the  arms  of  a  monster  ?  He  can  not  be  so  great 
a  tyrant  — 

KARL. 

Tyrant! 

COUNT. 

Yes.  Man  was  created  to  cherish  woman,  not 
to  oppress  her  ;  and  he  is  the  worst  of  tyrants 


268  THE   MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 

who  would  injure  that  sex  whom  heaven  ordains 
it  his  duty  to  protect. 

KARL. 

Apply  you  this  to  the  king  ? 
COUNT. 

To  the  king,  or  to  any  he  in  Christendom,  who 
would  use  his  power  to  oppress  the  unfortunate  ! 
But  come,  sir,  we  will  not  dispute  about  a  hasty 
word —  We  have  higher  duties  to  perform. 
KARL. 

True,  count ;  we  oppose  our  weapons  to  the 
enemies  of  our  country,  not  the  bosoms  of  our 
friends.  I  say  our  country  ;  for,  although  you 
were  born  in  Poland,  and  I  in  Hungary,  Frederick 
has  made  Prussia  almost  as  dear  to  us  as  our 
native  land,  tyrant  though  he  maybe.  —  But  we 
will  not  quarrel  about  a  single  captive,  when  the 
king  has  placed  so  many  at  the  disposal  of  those 
who  fight  his  battles.  [Trumpet  sounds  without. 

(Enter  HAROLD  with  despatches.") 

HAROLD   (tO  COUNT.) 

Despatches  from  the  king.  (Aside.}  And  a 
letter  from  Sophia  Mansfield.  [Exit. 

( The  COUNT  receives  and  examines  despatches  ; 

kisses  SOPHIA'S  letter,  and  puts  it  into  his  bosom. 

KARL  does  not  notice  it.} 


SCENE  II.]              WHO  's   THE    TRAITOR  ?  269 

DUET COUXT   AND    KARL. 

'Tis  a  soldier's  rigid  duty 

Orders  strictly  to  obey  ; 
Let  not,  then,  the  smile  of  beauty 

Lure  us  from  the  camp  away. 
In  our  country's  cause  united, 

Gallantly  we  '11  take  the  field  ; 
But,  the  victory  won,  delighted 

Singly  to  the  fair  we  yield  ! 

Soldiers  who  have  ne'er  retreated, 

Beauty's  tear  will  sure  beguile'; 
Hearts  that  armies  ne'er  defeated, 

Love  can  conquer  with  a  smile. 
Who  would  strive  to  live  in  story, 

Did  not  woman's  hand  prepare 
Amaranthine  wreaths  of  glory 

Which  the  valiant  proudly  wear  ? 

[Exit  the  Count,    KARL  follows,  menacing  him. 


270  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [Acx.   I. 


SCENE     III. 

An  apartment  in  the   Chateau  of  the  Countess. 
Enter  the  Countess  and  FRED  ERICA. 

COUNTESS. 

Your  morning  ride,  Frederica,  was  full  of  ro 
mance  —  the  horse  of  your  groom,  you  say,  took 
fright  - 

FREDERICA. 

Yes,  dear  mother,  and  darted  off  at  a  racing 
pace  ;  my  own  also  became  unmanageable,  and 
I  lost  my  presence  of  mind.  I  should  have  been 
thrown,  if  not  killed,  had  not  a  gentleman  rushed 
to  my  assistance. 

COUNTESS. 

Who  was  he  ? 

FREDERICA. 

I  do  not  know. 

COUNTESS. 

Was  he  alone  ? 

FREDERICA. 

There  was  an  elderly  person  with  him,  who 
seemed  to  be  a  foreigner. 

COUNTESS. 

But  he  was  young,  of  course  ? 


SCENE  III.]  WHO'S   THE   TRAITOR?  271 

FREDERICA. 

Yes,  mother,  and  handsome  as  an  Adonis. 

COUNTESS. 

You  have  not  fallen  in  love  with  this  stranger, 
surely  ?  You  are  not  old  enough,  and  this  is 
only  your  first  season,  Frederica. 

FREDERICA. 

Love  has  all  seasons  for  his  own,  dear  mother. 
Listen ! 

SONG  *  FREDERICA. 

The  spring-time  of  love  is  both  happy  and  gay, 
For  Joy  sprinkles  blossoms  and  balm  in  our  way  ; 
The  sky,  earth,  and  ocean,  in  beauty  repose, 
And  all  the  bright  future  is  couleur  de  rose  ! 

The  summer  of  love  is  the  bloom  of  the  heart, 
When  hill,  grove,  and  valley  their  music  impart ; 
And  the  pure  glow  of  heaven  is  seen  in  fond  eyes, 
A  s  lakes  show  the  rainbow  that's  hung  in  the  skies ! 

The  autumn  of  love  is  the  season  of  cheer  — 
Life's  mild  Indian  summer,  the  smile  of  the  year — 
Which  comes  when  the  golden-ripe  harvest    is 

stored, 
And  yields  its  own  blessings,  repose,  and  reward. 

*  This  song  was  not  written  for  the  opera ;  but  was  introduced 
by  the  composer. 


272  THE   MAID    OF   SAXONY  ;    OR,  [Aor  L 

The  winter  of  love  is  the  beam  that  we  win, 
While  the  storm  howls  without,  from  the  sunshine 

within. 

Love's  reign  is  eternal — the  heart  is  his  throne, 
And  he  has  all  seasons  of  life  for  his  own. 

COUNTESS. 

Silly,  thoughtless  girl !  —  What  strangers  are 
these  coming  up  the  avenue  ? 

FREDERIC  A  (looking  OUt.) 

As  I  live,  the  elderly  person  I  told  you  of,  and 
the  young  gentleman  who  risked  his  life  to  save 
mine  ! 

(Enter  WEDGEWOOD  and  ALBERT.) 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  the  Countess 
Laniska  ?  (Aside.)  Flounces,  frills,  fillagrees, 
and  furbelows,  but  she  >s  superlatively  odd ! 

COUNTESS. 

I  am  the  countess,  sir. 

WEDGEWOOD  (presenting  letters) 

Will  your  ladyship  be  pleased  to  receive  these 
letters  of  introduction  — if  quite  convenient  ? 
COUNTESS  (receiving  letters  and  looking  at  them.) 

Mr.  Wedgewood,  from  Esturia  and  London  ; 
and  — 


SCENE  III.]  WHO  's   THE   TRAITOR  ?  273 

WEDGEWOOD  (introducing  ALBERT.  J 
Mr.  Albert  Worrendorf. 

COUNTESS  (introducing  FREDKRICA.J 
My  daughter  Frederica. 

ALBERT  (aside) 
The  angel  we  met  by  accident  this  morning ! 

WEDGEWOOD  (aside.) 
Seraphically  odd ! 

FREDERICA   (to  ALBERT.) 

We  have  seen  each  other  before,  Mr.  Worren 
dorf. 

ALBERT. 

To  my  great  happiness,  madam. 

(ALBERT  and  FREDERICA  converse  apart.) 

COUNTESS  (tO  WEDGEWOOD.) 

It  was  very  kind  in  my  correspondent,  Mr. 
Wedgewood,  to  introduce  a  gentleman  of  your 
celebrity  to  my  chateau. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

You  do  me  honor,  madam.  We  Englishmen 
are  plain-spoken  people.  We  are  not  unlike  our 
earthenware  —  delf  and  common  clay  mixed  to 
gether.  If  our  outsides  are  sometimes  rough,  all 
within  is  smooth  and  polished  as  the  best  of  work. 
It  is  the  purest  spirit,  which,  like  the  finest  china, 
18 


2*U  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [Acx  I. 

lets  the  light  shine  through  it.  (Aside.)  Not  a 
a  bad  compliment  to  myself,  and  metaphorically 
odd! 

COUNTESS. 

Your  reply  reminds  me  of  the  object  of  your 
visit.  The  Prussians  are  very  proud  of  the  manu 
factory  which  has  claimed  the  attention  of  the 
king. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  see  the  great  Frederick ! 

COUNTESS. 

You  will  like  him,  I  am  confident. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

I  don't  know  that.  I  don't  at  all  fancy  his 
edict.  —  What !  marry  a  parcel  of  handsome,  in 
nocent,  industrious  girls  to  his  great  whiskered 
horse-guards,  whether  they  will  or  no?  It's  a 
piece  of  moral  turpitude  —  an  insult  to  common 
sense  —  and  infamously  odd  — 

FREDERICA  (advancing.) 
Have  a  care,  Mr.  Wedgewood  —  have  a  care 
how  you  talk  about  the  king.    He  possesses  a  sort 
of  magical  ubiquity  —  and  is  here,  there,  and 
every  where  at  the  same  moment. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

How  does  he  manage  that  ? 


SCENE  III.]  WHO 'S    THE   TRAITOR?  275 

FREDERICA. 

He  wanders  about  in  secrecy  and  disguise  — 
enters  all  kinds  of  mansions  —  and  often  over 
hears  conversations  that  were  never  intended  for 
the  court.  By  this  means,  it  is  said,  he  gathers 
information  from  every  nook  and  corner  of  his 
kingdom. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Strange  kind  of  hocus-pocus  work  for  a  mon 
arch  !  —  Peripatetically  odd  ! 

ALBERT. 

I  have  been  told  that  he  knows  more  of  the 
character  and  condition  of  his  subjects  and  sol 
diers  than  they  do  themselves. 

COUNTESS. 

And  he  never  knows  of  a  wrong  done  among 
his  people  that  he  does  not  instantly  redress  — 
though  it  often  puzzles  them  to  learn  how  he 
arrives  at  his  knowledge  of  the  facts.  Many 
think  him  a  wizard. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

And  not  without  reason,  madam.  Never  before 
have  I  heard  of  such  a  compound  of  sagacity, 
courage,  and  eccentricity.  Oh,  I  am  all  in  a  glow 
to  see  and  converse  with  the  jolly  old  boy ! 

(Enter  Count  LANISKA.) 


276  THE   MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 


COUNTESS  (introducing 
My  son,  the  Count  Laniska,  will  present  you 
to  his  majesty. 

WEDGEWOOD  (bowing  to  COUNT.) 
If  it  is  convenient.     (Aside.)     Most  martially 
and  uniformly  odd  !     (To  LANISKA.)     But,  first, 
I  should  like  to  have  a  glimpse  at  the  factory. 

COUNT. 

I  shall  be  happy  to  show  it  to  you.  There  is 
one  extraordinary  subject  connected  with  it,  that 
will  surprise  you  both  —  a  young  girl  of  singular 
talent  and  beauty  — 

FREDERICA. 

Ah,  brother  !  upon  your  favorite  theme  again. 
That  young  girl  occupies  niore  of  your  thoughts 
than  all  the  porcelain  in  these  dominions. 

ALBERT  (aside.) 
Poor  Sophia  ! 

FREDERICA  (observing  the  Count  looks  thoughtful.) 
Why,  what  Js  the  matter  with  you,  brother  ? 

WEDGEWOOD. 

He  is  no  doubt  studying  the  mixture  of  differ 
ent  kinds  of  clay,  and  contriving  a  furnace  that 
will  not  destroy  it  by  too  much  heat.  Ingeniously 
odd! 


SCENE  III.]  WHO'S   THE   TRAITOR?  277 

COUNT. 

You  are  mistaken,  sir.  I  was  thinking  at  what 
time  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of  waiting  upon 
you. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

I  will  be  at  your  service  as  soon  as  I  have  had 
time  to  adjust  my  outward  and  refresh  my  inward 
man.  —  Necessarily  odd !  (Seeing  the  Countess 
about  to  retire.)  Madam,  allow  me  (takes  her 
hand)  —  If  it  is  convenient. 

\_Exit  WEDGEWOOD  and  Countess. 

FREDERICA  (to  COUNT.) 

Now,  brother,  that  the  countess  has  retired, 
pray  favor  us  with  your  confidence.  You  need 
not  mind  Mr.  Worrendorf —  I  have  told  him  all 
about  Sophia  Mansfield  —  I  love  that  poor  girl 
myself,  not  less  for  her  misfortunes  than  her 
genius. 

ALBERT. 

I  love  her  too  — 

FREDERICA  (aside.) 

i     Oh,  dear  !  what  7s  the  matter  with  me  ?     My 
head  turns  round  —  I  am  ready  to  drop  ! 

COUNT  (with  emotion.) 
You  love  her  !     Wherefore  ? 

ALBERT. 

She  is  my  countrywoman,  and  for  that  I  love 
her. 


278  THE   MAID   OF   SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT.  L 

FREDERIC  A  (recovering) 

Well,  gentlemen,  I  must  say  this  is  very  un- 
gallant  in  you  both,  to  be  praising  one  lady  so 
highly  when  there  is  another  in  the  room.  (Aside. ) 
Oh,  dear  me,  how  near  I  came  betraying  myself ! 

ALBERT. 

Your  pardon,  my  dear  madam.  When  I  look 
at  you,  I  almost  forget  there  is  another  woman 
in  the  world.  (Kisses  FREDERICA'S  hand,  who 
turns  away  in  evident  confusion.}  —  But  for  the 
present  I  must  leave  you,  to  join  Mr.  Wedge  wood. 

[Exit. 
COUNT  (noticing  them.) 

(Aside)  So,  so,  Frederica  —  fairly  caught,  I  per 
ceive  !  (To  FREDERICA.)  Ah,  sister,  sister  t  as  in 
all  things  else,  there  is  a  destiny  in  love. 

DUET LANISKA    AND    FREDERICA. 

From  my  fate  there 's  no  retreating  — 

Love  commands,  and  I  obey  ; 
How  with  joy  my  heart  is  beating 

At  the  fortunes  of  to-day  ! 
Life  is  filled  with  strange  romances  — 

Love  is  blind,  the  poets  say  ; 
When  he  comes  unsought,  the  chance  is 

Of  his  own  accord  he  '11  stay. 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO'S   THE   TRAITOR?  279 

Love  can  ne'er  be  forced  to  tarry  ; 

Chain  him  —  he  '11  the  bonds  remove  : 
Paired,  not  matched,  too  many  marry  — 

All  should  wed  alone  for  love. 
Let  him  on  the  bridal-even 

Trim  his  lamp  with  constant  ray  ; 
And  the  flame  will  light  to  heaven, 

When  the  world  shall  fade  away  ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE    IV. 

The  whole  depth  of  the  stage  is  made  use  of  in 
this  scene,  which  represents  an  open  country. 
A  Camp  and  Soldiers  at  a  distance.  Music. 
Enter  HANS,  GERTRUDE,  and  Peasantry  :  Lads 
and  Lasses  dancing. 

CHORUS    OF   PEASANTS. 

Lads  and  lasses,  trip  away 
To  the  cheerful  roundelay  ! 
At  the  sound  of  tambourine, 
Care  is  banished  from  the  scene, 
And  a  happy  train  we  bound, 
To  the  pipe  and  tabour's  sound. 

Merrily,  merrily  trip  away, 

T  is  a  nation's  holiday  ! 


280  THE   MAID    OF   SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 

Merrily,  merrily,  merrilie, 
Bound  with  spirits  light  and  free ! 
Let 's  be  jocund  while  we  may  ; 

And  dance  —  dance  —  dance  — 
And  dance  the  happy  hours  away  ! 

When  the  gleaming  line  shall  come, 
To  the  sound  of  trump  and  drum  ; 
Headed  by  advancing  steeds, 
Whom  the  king  in  person  leads  — 
Let  us  hail  him  in  his  state, 
For  the  king's  both  good  and  great ! 

Merrily,  merrily  trip  away, 

'T  is  a  nation's  holiday  ! 

Merrily,  merrily,  merrilie, 

Bound  with  spirits  light  and  free  ! 

Let 's  be  jocund,  now  we  may, 
And  dance  —  dance  —  dance  — 

And  dance  the  happy  hours  away  ! 

(Immediately  after  chorus,  a  grand  march  is 
commenced  in  the  distance,  which  becomes 
m,ore  and  more  distinct  as  the  troops  advance. 
The  Peasants  form  in  groups.  HAXS  speaks 
during  the  first  part  of  the  march.) 

HANS. 

Here  we  are,  Gertrude,  many  miles  from  our 
own  village  —  and  all  for  vat  ?    To  please  you  — 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO  ?S   THE    TRAITOR  ?  281 

(aside)  and  to  shell  a  few  color  to  der  artishes, 
vich  I  pring  along  mit  me  for  der  purpose  ;  but 
I  need  not  tell  her  dat.  —  Here,  stand  aside,  and 
don't  be  looking  after  de  sholders ! 

(GERTRUDE  and  HANS  stand  aside.  Grand  march. 
Enter  a  corps  of  Grenadiers  and  other  troops, 
who  form  on  the  right  of  the  stage.  Roll  of 
drums.  The  troops  present  arms.  Enter 
FREDERICK,  in  a  furious  passion,  followed 
by  general  and  staff  Officers,  and  Count  LAN- 
ISKA.  The  King  acknowledges  the  salute,  lifts 
his  hat,  and  puts  it  on  again  furiously.  HAR 
OLD  and  Corporal  are  in  the  ranks  of  the 
Grenadiers.  Throughout  the  scene  the  King 
speaks  hurriedly.) 

KING. 
General ! 

FIRST    GENERAL. 

Your  majesty. 

KING. 

How  comes  it  there  is  such  a  lack  of  discipline 
in  your  division  ?  Disband  that  regiment  at  once, 
and  draft  a  few  of  the  men  from  the  right  wing 
into  other  regiments  ordered  for  immediate  ser 
vice  !  The  sooner  they  are  shot  the  better ! 

FIRST   GENERAL. 

Yes,  sire.  [Exit. 


282  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 

KING. 

Generals  —  most  of  you  have  served  the  greater 
part  of  your  lives  with  me.  We  have  grown  gray- 
headed  in  the  service  of  our  country,  and  we  there 
fore  know  best  ourselves  the  dangers,  difficulties, 
and  glory  in  which  we  have  shared.  While  we 
maintain  the  discipline  of  the  army,  we  may  defy 
any  power  that  Europe  can  march  against  us  — 
relax  that,  and  we  become  an  easy  prey  to  the 
spoiler. 

SECOND  GENERAL. 

Your  majesty  shall  have  no  cause  of  complaint 
in  future. 

KING. 

Make  sure  of  that !  —  Soldiers,  I  rely  in  my 
operations  entirely  upon  your  well-known  zeal  in 
my  service,  and  I  shall  acknowledge  it  with  grati 
tude  as  long  as  I  live  ;  but  at  the  same  time  I 
require  of  you  that  you  look  upon  it  as  your  most 
sacred  duty  to  show  kindness  and  mercy  to  all 
prisoners  that  the  fortunes  of  war  may  throw  in 
your  power. 

SECOND    GENERAL. 

That  duty,  sire,  you  have  taught  us  all  our 
lives. 

KING  (talcing  snujf.) 

Good  !  —  Have  any  of  my  grenadiers  anything 
to  say  to  me  before  the  parade  is  dismissed  ? 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO  ?S   THE    TRAITOR  ?  283 

HAROLD  (recovering  arms.) 
Your  Majesty ! 

KING. 

Speak  out,  Harold ! 

HAROLD. 

The  grenadiers  have  noticed  with  deep  regret 
that  you  fatigue  yourself  of  late  too  much  with 
the  cares  of  the  army.  We  protest  against  it  — 

KING. 

Zounds  and  fury  !  —  Here 's  rebellion  !  You 
protest  against  it  ? 

HAROLD  (bluntly.) 

We  do.  You  are  getting  to  be  an  old  man  — 
a  very  old  man  —  and  are  too  much  afoot. 

KING. 

I  can  do  as  I  like  about  it,  I  suppose  ? 

HAROLD. 

Certainly  not ;  and  you  will,  therefore,  in  future, 
be  good  enough  to  use  your  carriage  more  and 
your  legs  less. 

KING. 

What  do  the  grenadiers  fear  1 

HAROLD. 

We  fear  nothing  but  the  loss  of  your  health, 
the  loss  of  your  life,  or  the  loss  of  your  favor, 
sire. 


284  THE   MAID    OF    SAXOXY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 


Don't  you  fear  the  loss  of  my  temper  at  yonr 
bluntness  —  eh,  old  comrade  ? 

HAROLD. 

No,  sire  ;  we  know  you  like  it. 

KING. 

I  do  indeed.  You  are  in  the  right,  niy  brave 
compatriots  —  for  my  advanced  age  and  increas 
ing  infirmities  admonish  me  that  I  shall  be  under 
the  necessity  of  following  your  advice.  But  on 
the  day  of  battle,  you  shall  see  me  on  horseback 
—  on  horseback  —  and  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight ! 
(  Crosses  the  stage,  as  a  Burgomaster  enters,  kneels, 
and  presents  a  petition.)  What  have  we  here  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

Sire  —  the  common  council  has  imprisoned  a 
citizen,  upon  an  accusation  that  he  has  sinned 
against  heaven,  the  king,  and  the  right  worship 
ful  the  common  council.  We  humbly  beg  to  know 
what  Your  Majesty's  pleasure  is  with  regard  to 
the  punishment  of  so  unparalleled  and  atrocious 
an  offender  ? 

KING. 

If  the  prisoner  has  sinned  against  heaven,  and 
is  not  a  fool  or  a  madman,  he  will  make  his  peace 
with  it  without  delay.  That  is  a  Power  (taking 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO 's   THK    TRAITOR?  285 

off  his  hat  —  all  the  characters  make  their  obei 
sance)  that  kings  themselves  must  bow  to  in 
reverential  awe.  (Resumes  his  hat.) 

BURGOMASTER. 

But  he  has  also  sinned  against  your  high  and 
mighty  majesty  — 

KING. 
Tush,  tush,  man  • 

BURGOMASTER  (profoundly.) 
On  my  official  veracity,  sire. 

KING. 

Well,  well,  for  that  I  pardon  him  — 

BURGOMASTER. 

And  he  has  likewise  sinned  against  the  right 
worshipful  the  common  council. 

KING. 
The  reprobate!— 

BURGOMASTER. 

It  is  most  veritable,  Your  Majesty  ! 

KING. 

Well,  for  that  terrible  and  enormous  offence,  it 
becomes  my  solemn  duty  to  make  an  example  of 
so  abominable  a  culprit  and  to  punish  him  in  a 
most  exemplary  manner.  Therefore  — 

BURGOMASTER. 

Yes,  Your  Majesty  — 


286  THE    MAID    OF   SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 

KING. 

Send  him  to  the  Castle  of  Spandau,  to  be  im 
prisoned  — 

BURGOMASTER. 

Your  Majesty  — 

KING. 
For  at  least  — 

BURGOMASTER. 

Sire-— 

KING. 

Half  an  hour  (Peasantry  laugh;)  —  and  after 
ward  he  is  at  liberty  to  go  the  devil  his  own  way  ; 
and  the  right  worshipful  the  common  council  may 
go  with  him,  if  they  like  ! 

(Exit  Burgomaster.  As  he  goes  out,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  all  the  Peasantry  laugh,  until 
checked  by  a  look  from  the  King,  who  crosses 
the  stage  to  the  Grenadiers,  and  addresses  the 
Corporal,  who  has  his  watch-riband  suspended.) 

KING. 

Corporal !    (He  advances  and  recovers  arms.) 

CORPORAL. 

Your  Majesty  ! 

KING. 

I  have  often  noticed  you  in  the  field.  You  are 
a  brave  soldier —  and  a  prudent  one,  too,  to  have 


SCENB  IV.]  WHO  *S    THE    TRAITOR  ?  287 

saved  enough  from  your  pay  to  buy  yourself  a 

watch. 

HAROLD  (aside  to  CORPORAL.) 

You  remember  what  I  told  you  about  a  hawk's 
eye. 

CORPORAL. 

Brave  I  natter  myself  I  am  ;  but  as  to  my 
watch,  it  is  of  little  signification. 

KING  (seizing  and  pulling  out  a  bullet  fastened  to 

the  Corporal's  watch-riband.) 
Why,  this  is  not  a  watch  !  —  It 's  a  bullet ! 

CORPORAL. 

It 's  the  only  watch  I  have,  Your  Majesty  ; 
but  I  have  not  worn  it  entirely  out  of  vanity  — 

KING. 

What  have  you  worn  it  for,  then  ?  It  does  not 
show  you  the  time  of  day  ! 

CORPORAL. 

No  ;  but  it  clearly  shows  me  the  death  I  am  to 
die  in  your  Majesty's  service. 

KING. 

Well  said,  my  brave  fellow  !  And,  that  you 
may  likewise  see  the  hour  among  the  twelve  in 
which  you  are  to  die,  I  will  give  you  my  watch. 
Take  it,  and  wear  it  for  my  sake,  corporal.  ( The 
King  gives  the  Corporal  his  watch.) 


288  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  I. 

CORPORAL  (ivith  emotion) 
It  will  also  teach  me  that  at  any  moment  Your 
Majesty  may  command  my  life. 

HAROLD  (enthusiastically.} 
And  the  lives  of  us  all.     Long  live  the  king  ! 
(Flourish  of  drums.    The  King  acknowledges  the 
salute.) 

KING  (to  Grenadiers. ) 

You,  my  brave  fellows,  are  my  own  guards.  I 
cau  rely  upon  you.  There  is  no  want  of  discipline 
here  —  eh,  General  ?  Notwithstanding  all  my  an 
noyances,  I  am  the  happiest  king  in  Christendom ! 

CHORUS. 

(Grenadiers  and  all  the  Characters.) 
All  hail  the  king  !  —  Long  live  the  king  ! 

Our  hope  in  peace  and  war  ! 
With  his  renown  let  Prussia  ring  — 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
He  is  the  pillar  of  the  state  ! 

Our  sword  and  buckler  he  ! 
Heaven  give  to  Frederick  the  Great 

Eternal  victory  ! 

( The  Grenadiers  cheer.  The  Officers  close  about 
the  King.  Flourish  and  tableau.  The  act" 
drop  descends  on  the  picture.) 

END    OF    THE    FIRST    ACT. 


SCENE  I.]  WHO 's   THE    TRAITOR?  289 

ACT    II. 
SCENE    I. 

Discovered.  The  stage  represents  a  large  apart- 
ment  without  the  usual  side-entrances.  On  the 
left  hand  is  a  row  of  long,  old-fashioned  win 
dows,  with  painting-screens  so  arranged  as  to 
let  the  light  fall  obliquely  on  the  tables  beneath  ; 
at  which  the  Factory  Girls  are  seated,  employ 
ed  in  painting  various  articles  of  porcelain. 
SOPHIA  MANSFIELD  is  seated  at  the  table 
nearest  the  audience.  On  the  right  are  sep 
arate  tables,  at  which  Girls  are  employed  mix 
ing  and  grinding  colors.  In  the  centre  of  the 
stage  is  a  small  platform,  on  which  a  number 
of  painted  vases,  ready  for  the  oven,  are  placed. 
KARL  is  engaged  in  examining  them.  At  the 
rear  of  the  stage  is  the  entrance  to  the  room  — 
a  large  open  door  —  on  each  side  of  which  are 
rows  of  shelves,  filled  ivith  vases,  bowls,  plates, 
jars,  mantel  ornaments,  and  the  like,  put  there 
to  dry.  The  whole  representing  the  painting- 
room  of  the  Royal  Porcelain  Factory.  Through 
the  doors  the  furnaces  are  seen,  on  ivhich  the 
porcelain  is  placed  to  set  the  colors,  and  which 
several  Workmen  are  attending.  The  curtain 
rises  slowly  to  the  music. 
19 


£30  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY;    OR,  [AcT.  II. 

CHORUS. 

(German    ai r.) 

Home,  home,  home  — 

Dear,  lost  home ! 
Though  here  we  pine  in  slavery, 
Our  hearts  are  all  in  Saxony, 

Our  girlhood's  happy  home ! 

Land  of  the  free  and  bold, 
To  hopeless  bondage  sold  ! 
While  abject  toil  and  fear 
Enchain  thy  daughters  here, 

We  yearn  for  thee, 

O  Saxony ! — 
For  freedom,  love,  and  home  ! 

(  The  Girls  attempt  to  waltz  to  the  music ;  but, 
overcome  by  their  feelings,  they  resume  their 
tasks. 

SOLO SOPHIA. 

Home,  home,  home  — 

Dear,  lost  home ! 

Though  cares  oppress  us  fearfully, 
We  exiles  carol  cheerfully 

Of  girlhood's  happy  home  ! 

Beneath  our  native  sky, 
The  hours  went  swiftly  by  ; 


SCENE  I.]  WHO  *S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  291 

While  on  a  foreign  soil, 
Our  youth  consumes  in  toil ! 

We  yearn  for  thee, 

O  Saxony !  — 
For  freedom,  love,  and  home  ! 

(The  Girls  attempt  to  waltz,  as  before,  etc.) 

CHORUS. 

Home,  home,  home,  etc. 
(The  Workmen  and  the  Girls  resume  their  tasks.) 

(Enter  Count  LANISKA,  ALBERT  and  WEDGEWOOD.) 

WEDGEWOOD  (looking  around,  and  speaking  en 
thusiastically  as  he  enters.) 

Admirable,  upon  my  word  !  Every  department 
better  than  the  last,  and  this  the  best  of  all ! 
Never  saw  anything  like  it.  The  colors  brilliant 
—  the  designs  exquisitely  classical  —  "  a  place  for 
everything,  and  everything  in  its  place  ! " 

COUNT. 

Whatever  His  Majesty  constructs,  whether  a 
fortress  or  a  factory,  is  perfect  in  all  its  details. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Yet  look  around,  and  read  your  monarch's  his 
tory  in  the  eyes  of  these  prisoners  of  war.  Ob 
serve  that  picture  of  melancholy  (pointing  to 


292  THE   MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  IL 

SOPHIA,  who,  during  the  scene,  has  been  leaning 
dejectedly  on  her  hand.  —  KARL  standing  by  her 
side.)  How  reluctantly  she  pursues  her  task  ! 
Our  English  manufacturers  work  in  quite  another 
manner,  for  they  are  free  ! 

KARL. 

And  are  free  men  or  free  women  never  indis 
posed  ?  —  or  do  you  Englishmen  blame  your  king 
whenever  any  of  his  subjects  turn  pale  ?  The 
woman  at  whom  you  are  looking  is  evidently  ill. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Then  fie  upon  your  inhumanity  for  making  a 
poor,  sick  girl  work  when  she  seems  scarcely  able 
to  hold  up  her  head  !  (Aside.)  I  don't  half 
like  that  fellow.  Villainously  odd. 

ALBERT  (tO  SOPHIA.) 

My  poor  girl,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  T 
The  overseer  says  that,  since  you  came  here,  you 
have  done  nothing  worthy  of  your  pencil.  Yet 
this  charming  piece  (pointing  to  an  ornament  of 
her  painting)  — which  was  brought  from  Saxony, 
is  of  your  design — is  it  not? 

SOPHIA. 

Yes,  sir,  it  was  my  misfortune  to  paint  it.  If 
the  king  had  never  seen  or  liked  it,  I  should  now 
be  — 


SCENE  I.]  WHO  's  THE   TRAITOR  ?  293 

ALBERT. 

In  Saxony  ;  but  forget  that  country,  and  you 
may  be  happy  in  this. 

SOPHIA. 

I  can  not  forget  it !  —  I  can  not  forget  every 
body  that  I  ever  loved.  Ask  not  a  Saxon  woman 
to  forget  her  country  ! 

ALBERT. 

Whom  do  you  love  in  Saxony  now  ? 

SOPHIA. 

Whom  do  I  not  love  in  Saxony  ?  I  have  a 
brother  there,  whom  I  have  not  seen  since  child 
hood.  He  was  at  college  when  I  was  carried  off 
from  the  cottage  in  which  we  both  were  born. 
He  is  ignorant  of  my  fate.  (She  regards  ALBERT 
with  great  attention,  and  examines  his  features 
minutely.) 

ALBERT. 

Why  do  you  gaze  upon  me  so  intently  ? 
SOPHIA. 

I  know  not  why,  sir  ;  but  you  seemed  even  now 
a  dear  heart-cherished  one,  whom  I  have  wished 
for  long  and  anxiously. 

ALBERT. 

Think  me  that  one,  and  trust  me. 


294  THE   MAID   OF   SAXONY  J    OR,  [ACT  II. 

SOPHIA. 

I  will — for  there 's  a  cherub  nestling  in  my  heart 
which  whispers,  "You  are  here  to  save  me!" 
(ALBERT  leads  her  to  her  task,  which  she  resumes 
in  great  dejection  of  spirits.) 

WEDGEWOOD  (to  KARL.) 

Is  that  poor  girl  often  thus  ? 

KARL. 

She  sits  as  you  see  her,  like  one  stupified,  half 
the  day. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

The  cause  of  this  —  if  it  is  convenient  ? 

KARL. 

She  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  a  soldier  (glancing 
at  SOPHIA) — who  swears,  if  she  delays  another 
day  to  marry  him,  that  he  will  complain  to  the 
king. 

COUNT  (turning  furiously  upon  KARL.) 

Wretch  !   (seizes  him.) 

KARL  (throwing  him  off.) 
This  insult  will  cost  you  dear  !    Your  scorn  for 
the  king's  commands  — 

COUNT  (scornfully.) 

I  had  forgotten.  (Releases  him.)  You  are  a 
mere  instrument  in  the  hands  of  a  tyrant ! 


SCENE  I.  WHO'S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  295 

KARL  (aside.) 
That  word  again  !  — 

SOPHIA  (running  between   them,  and  throwing 

herself  at  the  feet  O/LANISKA.^ 
Save  me  !  save  me  !    You  can  save  me  !    You 
are  a  powerful  lord,  and  can  speak  to  the  king ! 
Save  me  from  this  detested  marriage  ! 

KARL  (aside  to  SOPHIA.) 
Are  you  mad  ? 

COUNT  (raising  SOPHIA,  who  clings  to  him,  and 

shrinks  from  KATLL.J 
I  will  do  so,  or  perish  in  the  attempt  ! 

KARL  ( aside J 

Ah  !  say  you  so  ?     Then  the  king  shall  know 
his  enemy  and  mine  !  [Exit. 

WEDGEWOOD  (noticing  KARL  go  off.) 
Whew  !  There 's  mischief  brewing  !  If  that 
black-muzzled  rascal  is  not  hatching  trouble  for 
us  all,  I  '11  never  trust  my  seven  senses  again!  I 
wonder  they  permit  such  a  bear  to  go  at  large 
in  a  garden  like  this  —  he  '11  root  up  flowers  as 
well  as  weeds.  —  Dangerously  odd  ! 

(Trumpet  sounds  without,  and  a  buzz  and  hum 
as  if  °f  a  distant  crowd  ;  the  noise  come  near 
the  Factory.) 


296  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  II. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

What 's  afoot  now,  I  wonder  ? 

ALBERT. 

Some  new  freak,  no  doubt,  of  this  eccentric 
monarch.     (Noises.) 

WEDGEWOOD  (looking  out.) 
The  town  is  all  astir  (noise  louder)  — humming 
and  buzzing  like  a  hive  of  bees  !  (Noise,  and 
distant  shouts.)  And  yonder  comes  a  fussy  little 
burgomaster  with  a  proclamation,  and  a  crowd 
of  noisy  citizens  at  his  heels  —  odd  ! 

[Noise  and  shouts  increase. 
(SOPHIA  and  the  other  Girls  and  the  Workmen 
leave  their  occupations,  as  if  anxious  to  learn 
the  cause  of  the  uproar.  When  the  buzzing, 
huzzaing,  and  noise  reach  the  Factory,  loud 
sound  of  the  trumpet.} 

BURGOMASTER  (without.) 

Make  way  there,  good  people  —  make  way 
there  for  the  royal  herald!  (  The  Burgomaster 
hustles  in  with  the  Herald — the  crowd  following 
and  surrounding  him  —  noises. )  Stand  back 
(using  his  wand)  —  stand  back,  you  idle,  ragged 
tatterdemalions,  and  pay  all  due  reverence  to  the 
constituted  authorities  !  (laughter)  —  for  know 
all  men  by  these  presents  (very  pompously,)  that 
I  represent  the  king  !  (laughter.) 


SCENE  I.]  WHO '.S    THE    TRAITOR?  297 

WEDGEWOOD. 

What  a  fig-are  for  the  part !   (laughter.) 

BURGOMASTER  (smartly  striking  w <itli  his  wand  one 

who  laughs  louder  than  the  rest.) 
Take  that,  and  let  it  teach  you  better  manners 
in  future,  you  scarecrow  !  —  Now  draw  near,  good 
people,  and  be  dumb !   Lend  me  all  your  ears  ! — 

WEDGEWOOD. 

You  have  ears  enough  already  for  any  two- 
legged  animal  — 

BURGOMASTER. 

While  I,  by  virtue  of  my  office  as  a  magistrate, 
publish  this  important  document !  (SOPHIA  comes 
forward.) 

CITIZEN  (eagerly) 

Now  for  it ! 
BURGOMASTER  (hitting  him  smartly  over  the  head.) 

You  will,  will  you? — Hish  !  This  paper  is 
big  with  information  to  the  whole  realm  ;  but 
more  especially  to  the  daughters  of  Saxony. 
(SOPHIA  and  the  Girls  of  the  Factory,  by  looks 
and  actions,  evince  great  interest  in  the  reading 
of  the  paper.) 

BURGOMASTER. 

Hish !  (To  Herald.)  Now  proceed  in  regular 
order,  and  according  to  ancient  form  and  usage, 


298  THE    MAID    OF    SAXOXY  ;    OR,  [ACT  II. 

to  read  the  royal  proclamation  ! — Hisli !  (Hands 
paper  to  Herald.) 

HERALD  (reads.) 

11  By  the  grace  of  God,  we,  Frederick  the 
Second,  King  of  Prussia,  hereby  make  known 
that  we  will  give  freedom  —  " 

SOPHIA  (eagerly  aside.) 
Freedom  ?  (Listens  with  anxiety.) 

HERALD. 

"  And  a  reward  of  jive  hundred  crowns  to  the 
Artist  who  shall  produce  the  most  beautifully  de 
signed  and  highly-finished  enamelled  porcelain 
vase  of  Berlin  china  ;  and  permit  her  to  marry 
whomsoever  she  shall  think  proper." 

SOPHIA  (aside  and  joyfully.) 
Hear  I  aright  ?    ( The  Girls  of  the  Factory 
show  great  joy  at  this.} 

HERALD. 

16  The  Artist's  name  shall  be  inscribed  upon 
the  vase,  which  shall  be  called  6  The  Prussian 
Vase:  " 

SOPHIA  (aside.) 

Oh,  happy,  happy  news  ! 

HERALD. 

"  Signed  at  the  Sans  Souci  — 

"By  THE  KING." 


SCENE  I.]  WHO  's    THE    TRAITOR  ?  299 

OMXES. 

Hu— z— z— a— a— li— a— a— a— a  !  (Amid 
the  shouts  and  general  joy  of  the  Girls,  the  Burgo 
master  bustles  out,  using  his  ivand  frequently, 
and  speaking  all  the  while;  the  Herald  following, 
and  the  Citizens  buzzing  and  huzzaing  as  before.) 
Silence,  you  nondescript  villains  !  —  Silence,  I 
say  !  You  stun  me  with  your  uproar !  (Loud 
shout. — Passionately.)  Oh,  shut  your  ugly 
mugs !  (Strikes  them.) 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Mugs  !  I  like  that.  He 's  in  the  crockery- 
trade,  like  myself. 

SOPHIA  (with  joy.) 

This  proclamation  has  animated  me  with  new- 
life  and  energy.  I  feel  like  one  inspired  ! 

COUNT. 
What  mean  you  ? 

SOPHIA. 
To  become  a  competitor  for  the  prize, 

ALBERT. 

You  will  have  many  opponents, 

SOPHIA, 

I  heed  them  not. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

All  will  be  zeal  throughout  the  manufactory. 


300  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY;    OR,  [ACT  II. 

SOPHIA. 

So  much  the  greater  need  for  my  perseverance. 

ALBERT. 

Some  will  be  excited  with  the  hope  of  gaming 
their  liberty. 

SOPHIA. 
Oh;  blessed  hope  ! 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Some  stimulated  by  the  crowns.  —  Not  at  all 
odd.  —  It  would  be  odd  if  they  were  not ! 

SOPHIA. 

But  none  have  so  strong  a  motive  for  exertion 
as  I  have. 

COUNT  (with  enthusiasm.) 

Nobly  resolved !  I  will  assist  you  with  every 
faculty  I  possess. 

ALBERT  (with  the  same  feeling.) 
And  I! 

WEDGEWOOD  (with  the  same.) 
And  all !  —  If  it  is  convenient. 
SOPHIA  (joyfully.) 

Then  doubt  not  my  success.  (Exit  LANISKA, 
ALBERT,  and  WEDGEWOOD.)  Oh,  how  my  heart 
bounds  with  the  thoughts  of  once  more  seeing 
Saxony  !  Its  mountains,  torrents,  vineyards,  are 
all  before  me  now  !  And  then  our  native  songs  I 
—  They  steal  into  my  heart  and  melt  it. 


SCENE  L]  WHO  *S   THE   TRAITOR?  301 

SONG   AND    CHORUS. 

(German  air.) 

SOPHIA    AND    FACTORY   GIRLS. 

Sky.  stream,  moorland,  and  mountain, 

Tree,  cot,  spire,  and  dome, 
Breeze,  bird,  vineyard,  and  fountain, 
Kindred,  friends,  country,  and  home  I — 

Home,  home,  home,  home  !  — 
These  are  the  blessings  of  home ! 
( The  Factory-Girls  now  waltz  cheerfully  to  the 
music.} 

Hope  how  fondly  I  cherish, 

Dear  land,  to  see  thee  once  more ! 

O  Fate  !  let  me  not  perish 

Far  from  my  own  native  shore  ! 

Home,  home,  home,  home  !  — 
Saxony,  Liberty's  home ! 

(The  Girls  waltz  as  before,  etc.) 

Those  who  freedom  inherit, 
Bow  not  to  Tyranny's  throne  ; 

Then,  friends,  in  a  kind  spirit, 
Judge  of  my  love  by  your  own. 

Home,  home,  home,  home !  — 
The  land  of  the  heart  is  our  home ! 

(  They  all  waltz  with  great  spirit  until  the  scene 

•o 


302  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT.  II. 


SCENE    II. 

A  Street  in  Berlin.     Enter  FREDERICK  in  a  cloak 
—  KARL  following. 

KING. 

Those  who  have  the  command  of  motives,  and 
know  their  power,  have  also  the  command  of  all 
that  the  arts,  or  what  is  called  a  genius  for  the 
arts,  can  produce.  The  human  mind  and  human 
ingenuity  ^ire  much  the  same  in  Italy,  England, 
and  Prussia.  Then  why  should  not  we  have  a 
Prussian  as  well  as  a  Wedgewood  or  a  Barbarini 
vase  ?  We  shall  see.  I  do  not  understand  mon 
metier  de  roi,  if  I  can  not  call  forth  talents  where 
I  know  them  to  exist.  (To  KARL.J  And  so  the 
count  denounced  me  for  a  tyrant,  did  he,  Karl  ? 

KARL. 
He  did,  Your  Majesty. 

KING. 

He  >s  a  mere  stripling  ;  and  I  permit  boys  and 
fools  to  speak  of  me  as  they  list.  But  I  am  no 
tyrant,  Karl !  He  might  have  spared  me  that. 
(Musingly.)  Tyrant !  — 

KARL  ( aside. ) 
It  rankles  deeply. 


SCENE  II.]  WHO  *S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  303 

KING  (recovering  from  his  meditation.) 
Youth  and  inexperience  —  to  say  nothing  of 
love  —  pshaw !  —  which  is  the  root  of  all  folly  — 
shall  be  his  apology  this  time  :  but  let  him  be 
ware  how  he  offends  again  — 

KARL  (aside.) 
It  moves  him  as  I  intended. 

KING. 

No,  I  am  no  tyrant.  I  should  not  be  branded 
with  such  a  title ! 

KARL  (startled.) 
Branded,  Your  Majesty  ? 
KING. 

What  has  happened,  Karl  ?  You  are  as  pale 
as  ashes  !  What  mystery  is  here  ?  I  am  to  be 
trusted. 

KARL. 

Your  Majesty  was  ever  kind  ;  and  if  I  might  — 
KING. 

Might !  You  may.  Speak  freely  to  your  sove 
reign  —  your  friend  —  and  tell  me  what  it  is  that 
weighs  upon  your  mind. 

SONG KARL. 

Dared  these  lips  my  sad  story  impart, 
What  relief  it  would  give  to  my  heart ! 


304  THE    MAID   OF   SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ ACT  II. 

Though  the  scenes  of  past  years  as  they  rise, 
Bring  the  dews  of  remorse  to  my  eyes, 
Yet,  oh  hear  me,  and  ever  conceal 
What  in  agony  now  I  reveal !  — 

KING. 

Speak  freely,  Karl  — 

KARL. 
And  behold,  while  I  throw  off  the  mask  ! 

Ah,  no,  no,  no,  no,  no  — 
I  shrink  in  despair  from  the  task  ! 

In  the  page  of  my  life  there  appears 
A  sad  passage  that  Js  written  in  tears ! 
Could  but  that  be  erased,  I  would  give 
All  the  remnant  of  days  I  may  live  : 
Yet  the  cause  of  the  cloud  on  my  brow 
I  have  never  disclosed  until  now  — 

KING. 
Say  on,  Karl  — 

KARL. 
Here  behold  !  —  It  is  branded  in  flame  ! 

Ah,  no,  no,  no,  no,  no  — 
I  shrink  in  despair  from  my  shame  ! 

[KARL  rushes  out. 

KING. 

There  's  a  mystery  about  that  fellow  that  I 
can  not  understand.  —  Whom  have  we  here  ? 


SCENE  IL]  WHO *S   THE    TRAITOR?  305 

Oh,  the  English  traveller  who  is  in  such  a  good 

humor  with  my  manufactory,  and  who  has  such 

strange  notions  respecting  me.     Good  —  good  ! 

[Draws  his  cloak  about  him  and  retires. 

(Enter  WEDGEWOOD.) 

WEDGEWOOD. 

I  begin  to  perceive  that  I  shall  get  into  some 
confounded  scrape  if  I  stay  here  much  longer, 
and  so  will  my  young  friend  Mr.  Worrendorf, 
who  has  made  me  his  confidant  :  but  mum  's  the 
word  !  (Seeing  the  King,  who  is  in  the  act  of 
taking  snuff.)  Ah,  use  snuff,  my  old  boy  ?  — 
Odd  !  —  Thank  you  for  a  pinch.  (  Takes  a  pinch 
sans  ceremonie,  and  without  the  King's  consent. 
FREDERICK  shuts  the  box  angrily.  WEDGEWOOD 
starts  back  in  astonishment.  —  Aside.)  Wonder 
who  the  old-fashioned  brown  jug  can  be  !  I  '11 
take  him  by  the  handle  and  pour  him  out,  and 
see  what 's  in  him. 

KING. 

Like  the  snuff  ? 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Yes  (snuffs)— it  >$  decent  blackguard  (snuff's ) 
—  quite  decent. 

KING. 

Taste  it  again. 

20 


306  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  J    OR,  [Acx.  II. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Don't  care  if  I  do.     (Helps  himself.) 

KING. 

Perhaps  you  will  also  do  me  the  favor  to  accept 
the  box  ? 

WEDGEWOOD  (taking  the  box.) 
If  it  is  convenient.     What  am  I  to  infer  from 
this? 

KING. 

That  you  and  I  can  not  take  snuff  out  of  the 
same  box.  My  box  is  not  large  enough  for  two. 

WEDGEWOOD  (astonished.) 
You  don't  say  so  1  "  Not  large  enough  for 
two"  ?  (Looks  at  the  box.)  Damn  me  if  I  don't 
think  it  large  enough  for  a  dozen,  unless  they 
took  snuff  with  a  shovel !  (Aside.)  Who  in  the 
name  of  all  that 's  magnanimous  can  this  old 
three-cornered  cocked-hatted  cockolorum  be  ? 

KING. 

You  were  overheard  to  say  but  now  that  you 
would  like  to  see  the  king? 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Overheard  ?  (Aside.)  Ah,  that's  the  way  they 
do  everything  here.  A  man  can't  sneeze  without 
some  one  of  the  four  winds  of  heaven  reporting  it 
to  His  Majesty !  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a 


SCENE  II.]  WHO  *S    THE    TRAITOR?  307 

secret  in  the  whole  kingdom  !  How  do  the  wo 
men  get  along,  I  wonder?  (To  FREDERICK.) 
"Like  to  see  the  king?'7  Certainly  I  should. 

KING. 

That  box  will  procure  you  an  audience.  Pre 
sent  it  at  the  palace. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Look  you  here,  my  jolly  old  cock,  none  of  your 
jokes  —  none  of  your  tricks  upon  travellers,  if 
you  please.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

KING. 

That  I  am  appreciated  at  court. 
WEDGEWOOD  (aside.). 

Oh,  there's  no  standing  this  !  ( To  FREDERICK.) 
Do  you  intend  to  say  that  you  are  personally  ac 
quainted  with  Frederick  the  Great  ? 

KING. 

I  know  him,  I  believe,  better  than  any  subject 
in  his  realm.  He  is  my  most  intimate  friend. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Well,  then,  if  that  be  the  case,  all  that  I  have 
to  say  is,  that  he  is  not  over  and  above  nice  in 
the  choice  of  his  companions.  —  What  an  odd  old 
file! 

KING  (angrily.) 

Look  you  here,  Mr.  Wedgewood  — 


308  THE   MAID   OF   SAXONY  '    OR,  [ACT  II. 

WEDGE  WOOD  (stammering) 
W-e-d-g-e-w-o-o-d !  — 

KING. 

Yes  —  I  know  you  well  enough.  You  are  an 
Englishman  by  birth  —  a  crockery-merchant  by 
trade  —  a  gentleman  from  inclination  —  and  an 
odd  sort  of  character  from  habit.  Without  know 
ing  anything  more  about  it  than  the  man  in  the 
moon,  you  have  condemned  the  policy  of  the  king, 
who  is  aware  of  all  you  have  said  and  done  since 
your  arrival  in  Prussia. 

WEDGEWOOD  (alarmed.) 

Oh,  I  '11  get  out  of  this  infernal  country  as  fast 
as  my  legs  can  carry  me !  The  king  is  all  ears, 
like  a  field  of  corn  ;  and  all  eyes,  like  a  potato- 
patch  ! 

KING. 

What  alarms  you  ? 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Everything.  It 's  all  over  with  me  !  I  'm  an 
earthen  teapot  with  the  spout  knocked  off!  — 
Suspiciously  odd ! 

KING. 

You,  sir,  like  too  many  others,  are  entirely 
mistaken  in  the  character  of  Frederick.  You 
will  understand  him  better  when  we  meet  again 
(going.) 


SCENE  II.]  WHO  ?S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  309 

WEDGEWOOD. 

But,  before  you  go,  pray  receive  your  box  again  ! 
—  (the  King  looks  at  him  sternly  —  WEDGEWOOD 
greatly  alarmed)  —  If —  it  —  is  — convenient  ! 

KING. 

Not  now.  When  next  we  confer,  remember 
me.-— Farewell  !  [Exit. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Remember  you  ?  I  think  I  shall.  Once  seen, 
never  forgotten.  What  a  deep  old  screw  ! 

(Enter  HAROLD.) 

HAROLD. 

The  king  commands  your  presence  at  the  cha 
teau  of  the  countess. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

The  devil  he  does  !  (Looks  at  the  box.)  What  ?s 
here  ?  As  I  live,  the  royal  arms  !  (  Conceals  the 
box  from  HAROLD.)  Oh,  the  thing  7s  plain  enough. 
That  fellow  has  stolen  this  box  ;  and  for  fear  of 
being  found  out,  he  has  put  it  off  on  me  !  It  ?s 
all  up! — I 've  been  bamboozled  by  that  nefari 
ous  old  monster  of  iniquity !  But  I  '11  after  him 
straight,  and  have  him  jugged.  If  I  don't,  they  '11 
make  no  bones  tf jugging  p& ! — If  it  is  convenient. 

[Exit  in  a  flurry. 


310  THE    MAID   OF   SAXONY;    OR,  [ACT  II. 

HAROLD. 

How  he  trembles  !  He 's  frightened  out  of  his 
senses  —  Fear  ?  What  is  it  ?  A  word  not  to  be 
found  in  the  articles  of  war  —  a  soldier's  only 
vocabulary  ! 

SONG HAROLD. 

Fiery  Mars,  thy  votary  hear ! 

Weave  for  me  a  wreath  of  glory  ! 
When  I  rest  upon  my  bier, 

Let  my  memory  live  in  story ! 
Aid  my  sword  in  time  of  war  ! 

In  my  country's  cause  I  wield  it  — 
Only  with  the  breath  I  draw, 

Will  I  to  the  foeman  yield  it ! 

[Exit. 


SCENE    III. 

SOPHIA  MANSFIELD'S  apartments  in  the  Porce 
lain  Factory.     Enter  SOPHIA. 

SOPHIA. 

'Tis  done.  My  vase  is  finished,  and  in  the 
possession  of  the  overseer.  How  is  it  with  me  ? 
Although  my  fortunes  are  suspended  by  a  single 
thread,  an  unaccustomed  buoyancy  pervades  my 


SCENE  III.]  WHO 's    THE    TRAITOR?  311 

bosom.  Are  these  emotions  precursors  of  victory, 
or  has  the  love  of  Laniska  given  me  a  new  exist 
ence,  and  tinged  the  world  once  more  with  hues 
of  paradise  ?  How  new  and  fresh  and  strange  are 
all  things  here  .about  my  heart  !  This  is  his  gift 

—  a  simple  flower  !     He  said  it  is  an  emblem  of 
love.     It  is  not  so.     Love  does  not  perish  thus  ! 

—  Love  can  not  be  a  flower. 

SONG  —  SOPHIA. 

Ah  !  Love  is  not  a  garden-flower, 

That  shoots  from  out  the  cultured  earth  ; 
That  needs  the  sunbeam  and  the  shower, 

Before  it  wakens  into  birth  : 
It  owns  a  richer  soil  and  seed, 

And  woman's  heart  supplies  them  both, 
Where  it  will  spring,  without  a  weed, 

Consummate  in  its  growth. 

These  leaves  will  perish  when  away 

From  either  genial  sun  or  shower  ; 
Not  so  will  wither  and  decay 

Celestial  Love's  perennial  flower. 
'T  is  our  companion  countless  miles, 

Through  weal  or  woe  in  after  years  ; 
And  though  it  flourishes  in  smiles, 

It  blooms  as  fresh  in  tears ' 


312  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY;    OR,  [ACT  II. 

(Enter  FREDERICA.) 

FREDERICA. 

My  dear  Sophia,  I  am  overjoyed  to  learn  that 
you  have  completed  your  vase. 
SOPHIA. 

Thanks,  dear  madam.  Is  it  true  that  the  works 
of  the  different  competitors  are  to  be  exhibited  at 
the  fete  of  the  countess,  and  that  the  decision  is  to 
be  there  made  ? 

FREDERICA. 

It  is  —  and  the  countess  insists  upon  your  be 
ing  present 

SOPHIA. 

I  am  an  unknown  girl,  madam  ;  and  if  I  decline 
the  invitation,  I  beseech  you  take  it  not  amiss. 

FREDERICA. 

— But  I  will  take  it  amiss,  and  so  will  the  count 
and  countess,  whose  messenger  I  am,  and  who 
insisted  upon  my  bringing  you  to  the  chateau  at 
once. 

SOPHIA. 

Well,  madam,  since  you  will  have  it  so  — 

FREDERICA. 

Oh,  you'll  be  delighted.  Only  think  of  the 
concentrated  attractions  of  "the  court,  the  camp, 
the  grove  /"  Oh,  they  're  too  much  for  any  mortal 
woman  to  withstand ! 


SCENE  III]            WHO  's   THE   TRAITOR  ?  313 

DUET SOPHIA    AND    FREDERICA. 

The  king,  the  princes  of  the  court, 

With  lords  and  ladies  bright, 
Will  in  their  dazzling  state  resort 

To  this  grand  f&te  to-night  : 
The  merry-hearted  and  the  proud 
Will  mingle  in  the  glittering  crowd, 
Who  glide  with  Fashion's  sparkling  stream 
Where  one  I  love  will  shine  supreme ! — 
La  ra  la,  la  ra  la,  la  la  la,  etc. 

The  cavaliers  of  Italy, 

The  gay  gallants  of  France, 
With  Spain  and  England's  chivalry, 

Will  join  the  merry  dance. 
The  court  of  Love  — the  camp  of  Mars, 
Fair  Prussian  dames,  "  earth-treading  stars/' 
To  music's  strain  will  float  in  light, 
Where  one  I  love  will  beam  to-night !  — 
La  ra  la,  la  ra  la,  la  la  la,  etc. 

[Exit  cheerfully. 


314  THE   MAID   OF   SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  II. 


SCENE    IV. 

Discovered.  Grand  Saloon  in  the  Chateau  of 
the  Countess  LANISKA,  arranged  for  a  Fete. 
The  scene  opens  with  dancing  and  waltzing  by 
the  Characters,  and  discovers  the  King  and 
retinue,  Lords  and  Ladies  of  the  Court,  foreign 
Ambassadors  and  Attaches,  the  Countess  LAN- 
ISKA,  ALBERT,  WEDGEWOOD,  KARL,  Girls  of  the 
Factory,  etc.,  etc.  The  Characters  are  vari 
ously  grouped  during  the  dance  ;  and  while 
all  are  observing  the  King,  who,  with  KARL  at 
his  side,  is  attentively  examining  the  Vases, 
which  are  placed  on  stands  on  one  side  of  the 
stage,  the  Count  LANISKA  enters,  conducting  in 
SOPHIA  and  FREDERICA.  After  the  dance,  the 
King  speaks. 

KING. 

The  hour  has  arrived  which  is  to  decide  the 
fate  of  the  competitors.  (All  the  Characters  ex- 
press  by  their  looks  and  actions  the  utmost  anxiety 
as  to  the  result,  and  draw  near  to  the  King.) 

KARL  (to  KING). 

The  inscription  upon  this  vase  is  in  the  hand 
writing  of  the  Count  Laniska. 

KING. 
>Tis  well. 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO'S   THE   TRAITOR?  315 

KARL  (aside.) 
And  it  is  his  death-warrant  ! 

KING. 

Subjects  and  children  :  we  have  reason  to  be 
proud  of  an  art  that  redounds  to  the  honor  and 
gloiy  of  Prussia.  Where  all  have  deserved  well, 
all  shall  be  well  remembered.  (The  Girls  of  the 
Factory  manifest  great  joy  at  these  words,  and 
turn  to  congratulate  each  other.  SOPHIA  and 
LAXISKA  stand  apart,  and  watch  every  action  of 
the  King,  while  the  other  Characters  appear 
greatly  interested  for  SOPHIA.)  This  vase,  how 
ever,  I  select  from  the  rest,  as  the  most  beautiful 
of  them  all.  (SOPHIA  clasps  her  hands  in  great 
agitation.)  Let  this  be  known  to  after  ages  as 
"  THE  PRUSSIAN  VASE  ;"  and  let  the  name  hera 
inscribed  (looks  at  and  points  to  the  name  on  the 
vase)  be  chronicled  throughout  these  realms. 
(Takes  SOPHIA  ly  the  hand.)  Sophia  Mansfield 
is  the  artist,  and  she  is  free  !  (SOPHIA,  overcome 
ly  her  feelings,  falls  on  the  bosom  of  FRED  ERIC  A. ) 

CHORUS. 

Victoria !  victoria  ! 

The  Saxon  maid  is  free !  — 
Victoria  !  victoria !  etc. 


316  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY;    OR,  [ACT  II. 

SOPHIA. 

My  heart  will  break  with  gratitude  ! 

COUNT. 

And  mine  with  joy  ! 

KARL  (aside) 
It  will  be  of  brief  duration. 

KING  (who  has  regarded  SOPHIA  with  great  in 
terest.  ) 
Let  the  dance  proceed. 

( A  merry  dance  and  waltz  by  the  Characters,  at 
the  termination  of  which  a  tableau  is  formed. 
The  utmost  merriment  and  hilarity  mark  the 
action  of  the  scene.  At  the  conclusion  of  the 
dance,  the  King,  who  has  been  occupied  in 
carefully  examining  the  Vase,  wipes  it  with 
his  handkerchief,  which  becomes  stained  with 
the  paint.  KARL  draws  his  attention  to  the 
inscription.) 

KARL. 
Behold,  my  liege  !  — 

KING. 

Ha  !  What  words  are  these  ?  (Reads.)  "  To 
Frederick  the  Great  Tyrant"  —  Treachery  !  — 
(KARL  immediately  seizes  the  Vase,  and  carries 
it  off,  without  the  inscription  being  seen  by  any 
but  the  King.)  Break  off  the  sports  ! 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO 's   THE    TRAITOR?  3H 

COUNTESS  (greatly  astonished.) 
What  means  Your  Gracious  Majesty  ? 

KING. 

( Who  has  taken  out  his  tablets,  and  written  on 
them  in  great  haste — does  not  regard  her,  and 
speaks  furiously.)  —  Let  all  the  doors  be  closed  ! 
Such  base  ingratitude  shall  not  go  unpunished  ! 
—  Give  over  your  mirth  !      Ho  !  My  guards  ! 
(Drums  immediately  sound.)    My  guards  ! 
(Presto  !    Enter  HAROLD,  Corporal,  and  Grena 
diers,  in  great  haste.     The  King  hands  HAR 
OLD  his  orders,  and  rushes  out  in  a  towering 
passion.    Enter  WEDGEWOOD.    All  the  Guests 
are  thrown  into   great  confusion.      He-enter 
KARL.) 

HAROLD  (promptly.) 
Count  Laniska,  stand  forth ! 

COUNT. 

What  is  your  business  with  me,  Harold  ? 

HAROLD. 

You  are  our  prisoner. 

OMNES. 

Prisoner  ? 

KARL  (aside .) 
Now  I  triumph ! 

COUNT. 
Under  whose  orders  do  you  act  ? 


318  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY;    OR,  [ACT  II. 

HAROLD. 

Those  of  the  king. 

OMNES. 
The  king ! 

HAROLD. 

Sophia  Mansfield ! 

ALBERT. 

What  of  her  ? 

HAROLD. 

She  must  away  with  us  to  the  castle  of  Span- 

dau. 

SOPHIA. 

0  Heaven,  support  me ! 

COUNT  (drawing  his  sword.) 
Touch  her  at  your  peril,  Harold  ! 

ALBERT. 

This  is  madness  !  Give  me  your  sword  ! 
(  Wrests  it  from  him,  and  gives  it  to  HAROLD. ) 
Of  what  are  they  accused? 

HAROLD. 

Of  ingratitude  and  treason  ! 

OMNES. 
Treason ! 

Finale. 

COUNT. 

Treason ! 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO 's    THE    TRAITOR  ?  319 

OMNES. 

Treason ! 

COUNT. 

It  can  not  be  ! 
Of  treason  who  accuses  me  ? 

HAROLD. 

The  king  himself !  —These  orders  read  ! 

(Hands  paper  to  Count  J 
OMNES. 
The  king  himself ! 

COUNT  (looking  at  the  papers) 
'T  is  true  indeed  ! 

SOPHIA. 

Oh,  what  a  fearful  change  is  here  ! 

KARL  (aside.) 
I  triumph  now  !  —  my  vengeance  fear ! 

HAROLD. 

Your  prisoners  guard  !  —  No  more  delay ! 
(SOPHIA  and  LANISKA  are  made  prisoners  J 

OMNES. 

The  king's  commands  let  all  obey ! 

COUNT   AND    SOPHIA. 

We  must  obey  ! 

SOPHIA. 

Oh,  how  my  trusting  heart  is  grieved !  — 


320 


[ACT  II 


COUNT. 

Our  royal  master  is  deceived  ! 
No  traitor  I !  —  My  loyal  heart 
Spurns  with  disdain  so  base  a  part ! 

SOPHIA. 
How  vainly  Fortune  smiled  on  me  ! 

SOPHIA   AND    COUNT. 

Oh,  give  me  death  or  liberty ! 

KARL. 

Tear  them  apart ! 

HAROLD   AND   GRENADIERS. 

]STo  more  delay ! 

KARL. 

To  prison,  hence  !  — 

OMNES. 
To  prison  ? 

HAROLD   AND   GRENADIERS. 

Hence  ! 
OMNES. 

Away !  away ! 

(As  the  Guards  attempt  to  separate  Count  LAN- 
ISKA  and  SOPHIA,  great  confusion  ensues,  and 
the  act-drop  descends.) 

END   OP  THE   SECOND  ACT. 


SCENE  I.]  WHO  7S   THE    TRAITOR?  321 

ACT    III. 

S  GENE    I. 

The  stage  represents  part  of  the  Castle  of  Span- 
dan,  and  is  arranged  as  follows  :  On  the  left, 
is  a  large  rock  ;  above  which,  in  the  distance)  is 
the  Tower.  A  large  grated  door  opens  upon  a 
platform,  surrounded  by  iron  railings. — Count 
LANISKA  is  discovered  leaning  upon  them.  On 
the  right,  is  an  arched  cell,  with  part  of  the 
wall  jutting  from  the  side,  behind  which  is  a 
secret  door.  Above  this  is  a  fine  mew  of  an 
open  country,  and  a  clear,  blue,  starlight  sky. 
SOPHIA  is  seated  in  the  cell,  at  a  table. —  The 
whole  scene  is  so  managed  that,  while  the  Audi 
ence  have  a  full  view  of  evert/thing,  the  Prison 
ers,  although  they  hear,  can  not  see  each  other. 
—  Time,  near  midnight.  —  The  curtain  rises 
slowly  to  music. 

DUET SOPHIA    AND    COUNT. 

SOPHIA. 

This  gloomy  cell  is  my  abode  at  last ; 
The  sole  reward  for  all  my  perils  past. 
T  is  strange  that  love  within  the  breast  should 

dwell, 

When  hope,  dejected,  bids  the  heart  farewell ! 
21 


322  THE  MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [AcT  III. 


What  sounds  are  these  ?  No  human  form  is  near, 
And  yet  that  well-known  voice  I  faintly  hear, 
'T  was  sure  the  fancied  music  of  the  mind, 
Whose  breathings  mingled  with  the  midnight  wind. 

BOTH. 

Yes!— T  is  lost!— T  is  gone! — Hark!  it  conies 

again, 

Like  distant  echoes  of  a  melting  strain  : 
In  melody  {I;?/}  spirit  floats  around  !  — 
That  voice!  —  These  walls  are  vocal  with  the 

sound. 

I  hear  its  music  near  me  still !  — 'Tis  there  ! 
Sure  't  is  some  gentle  spirit  of  the  air  ! 

(During  the  duet,  the  moon  has  been  gradually 
rising,  and  the  light  falls  through  the  grated 
windoivs  of  the  Prison.) 

(Enter  Jailor,/r0w  the  Tower,  to  Count  LANISKA.) 

JAILOR. 

Count  Laniska  —  a  friend,  with  an  order  from 

the  king. 

COUNT. 

I  attend  him.  [Exit  Count  LANISKA. 

(Jailor  closes  the  iron  door  over  the  grated  win 
dow,  locks  it,  and  retires.) 


SCENE  L]  WHO  's    THE    TRAITOR  ?  823 

SOPHIA. 

'T  was  but  a  dream  !  —  T  is  past,  and  all  is  still 
again ! 

[  The  bell  in  the  Tower  strikes  twelve. 

BRAVURA SOPHIA. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  deep-toned  midnight  bell, 
That  bids  a  sad  and  long  farewell 

To  the  departed  hour  ; 
How  like  a  dirge  its  music  falls 
"Within  these  cold  and  dreary  walls, 

Where  stern  misfortunes  lower ! 

Ah !  vainly  through  these  prison-bars 
Glide  the  pale  beams  of  moon  and  stars, 

To  cheer  this  lonely  tower  ; 
From  evening's  close  to  dawn  of  day, 
Hope's  star  sheds  not  a  single  ray 

To  light  the  solemn  hour  ! 

Alas  !   what  pangs  must  guilt  conceal, 

When  innocence  like  mine  can  feel 
So  crushed  in  such  an  hour  ! 

I  know  not  whether  love  be  crime  — 

But  if  it  is,  in  every  clime 

'T  is  woman's  fatal  dower  ! 

I  can  find  no  clew  to  this  most  cruel  treachery. 
What  fiend  in  human  shape  has  plotted  my  de 
struction  ?  (Sound  of  chains  — prison-door  is 
unlocked.)  Ah  !  Karl  here  ! 


324  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  IIL 

(Enter  KARL,  who  secures  the  door  through  which 
he  came  in.  He  takes  a  position  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  stage,  and  regards  SOPHIA 
attentively.) 

KARL. 

Well,  Sophia,  we  meet  at  last  where  we  can 
confer  without  the  possibility  of  interruption.  I 
came  to  save  you. 

SOPHIA. 

My  life  would  not  be  worth  preserving,  owing 
anything  to  you. 

KARL. 

Subdue  this  unavailing  anger,  and  listen  to  your 
friend. 

SOPHIA. 

Not  to  you.  The  enmity  of  such  a  man  is  a 
tribute  paid  to  honesty.  Friend  !  (scornfully.) 

KARL. 
I  came  to  give  you  liberty. 

SOPHIA. 
How? 

KARL. 

By  flight. 

SOPHIA. 

Where  ? 

KARL. 

To  Saxony. 


SCENE  I.]  WHO  *S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  325 

SOPHIA. 

With  whom  t 

KARL. 

The  only  one  who  loves  you. 

SOPHIA. 
Name  him. 

KARL. 

Behold  him  at  your  feet ! 

SOPHIA. 

What  mockery  is  this  ?  Mark  me,  Karl :  I 
am  a  weak,  friendless,  unprotected  girl.  If  your 
sex  is  strong,  mine  is  resolute.  Abandon  your 
present  designs  —  give  up  this  useless  suit,  and 
cease  to  persecute  the  innocent. 

KARL. 

I  have  heard  you  !  Now  listen  to  me.  You 
are  my  destiny. 

SOPHIA. 

Wretch  ! 

KARL. 

I  can  not  and  I  will  not  live  without  you.  To 
secure,  if  not  your  love,  at  least  the  possession  of 
your  person,  I  have  perilled  everything.  You  are 
mine  by  right,  and  I  will  have  my  own. 

SOPHIA. 
Yours  by  right !  — 


326  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [Ad  III. 

KARL. 

Yes! 

SOPHIA. 

What  right  ? 

KARL. 

The  king  gave  you  to  me. 

SOPHIA. 
I  was  not  his  to  give. 

KARL. 
You  were  his  bondwoman. 

SOPHIA. 
And  his  bondwoman  spurned  you,  as  she  ought ! 

KARL. 
With  scorn  you  did  ! — I  have  not  forgotten  it. 

SOPHIA. 

And  does  so  now  again. 

KARL. 

You  love  another ! 

SOPHIA. 
I  '11  not  deny  it. 

KARL. 
Torture  !  (Draws  his  dagger.) 

SOPHIA  (greatly  terrified.) 
Karl,  you  would  not  stain  this  prison-floor  with 
blood ! 


SCENE  I.]  WHO  ?S    THE    TRAITOR  ?  327 

KARL. 

I  would,  to  strike  my  rival's  heart  through 
yours  !  —  But  words  may  make  the  blow  unne 
cessary.  (Puts  up  his  dagger.)  Hear  me,  Sophia. 

Till  I  saw  you,  I  never  felt  the  pangs  of  love  ! 

I  never  shed  a  tear!  From  manhood's  early 
dawn,  my  savage  nature  could  not  brook  reproof ; 
nor  friend  nor  foe  had  power  over  me.  Your 
smile  alone  subdued  this  callous  heart.  Sophia, 
save  me !  —  Save  a  repentant,  wretched  man ! 

SONG KARL. 

(German   ai r.) 
Once,  mild  and  gentle  was  my  heart ! 

My  youth  from  guile  was  free ! 
But  when  love's  bonds  were  torn  apart, 

What  joy  had  life  for  me  ? 
No  words,  no  threats  could  daunt  my  soul, 
My  reckless  spirit  spurned  control 

Till  swayed  by  smiles  from  thee ! 

A  wanderer  orer  the  desert  sand, 

An  outcast  on  the  sea, 
An  exile  from  my  native  land 

What  rs  all  the  world  to  me  ? 
Each  friend  misfortune  proved  a  foe  : 
I  scorned  the  high  — despised  the  low— 

Till  swayed  by  smiles  from  thee  t 


328  THE   MAID   OF   SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  III. 

(At  the  conclusion  of  the  song,  enter,  by  the  secret 
door,  HAROLD,  with  a  carbine,  conducting  in 
ALBERT  and  WEDGEWOOD  stealthily.) 

HAROLD  (aside,) 
I  knew  that  I  was  right. 

ALBERT  (aside.) 
Silence —  on  your  lives  ! 

WEDGEWOOD  (aside.) 
If  it  is  convenient !     [They  conceal  themselves. 

SOPHIA. 
It  is  in  vain  ! 

KARL. 

Then  you  must  away  with  me  this  very  night, 
this  very  hour,  or  perish  here  !  (KARL  advances 
and  takes  her  by  the  wrist.  ALBERT  keeps  WEDGE- 
WOOD  and  HAROLD  off.) 

SOPHIA. 

Villain,  forbear  !     Oh,  help  me,  Heaven  ! 
KARL  (drawing  his  dagger.) 

You  call  in  vain  !  Your  doom  is  sealed  !  — 
Die  !  (As  he  is  about  to  stab  SOPHIA,  WEDGE- 
WOOD  seizes  his  arm.) 

WEDGEWOOD. 

You  lie,  you  infernal  scoundrel ! 


SCENE  II.]  WHO  >S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  329 

KARL. 

Ha  !  betrayed  !  —  Have  at  you,  then !  (A 
struggle  ensues  between  KARL  and  WEDGEWOOD, 
in  which  the  former  is  overcome,  and  thrown  upon 
the  ground.  SOPHIA  rushes  into  ALBERT'S  arms 
in  great  agitation.  HAROLD  advances  to  the  cen 
tre  of  the  stage,  and  aims  his  carbine  at  KARL. 
At  the  same  moment,  WEDGEWOOD,  who  has  had 
a  desperate  struggle  with  KARL,  exclaims  — ) 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Your  dagger  !  your  dagger !  (  Wrests  it  from 
him.)  Now  yield,  or  die  !  —  (Rises,  places  his 
foot  upon  KARL,  and  holds  the  dagger  up)  —  If 
it  is  convenient  ! 

(  Tableau.  —  Scene  closes.) 

[Exit. 


SCENE    II. 

Another  cell  in  the  Castle  of  Spandau.  —  Enter 
Count  LANISKA  and  Jailor. 

JAILOR. 

Count  Laniska,  you  bear  the  king's  commission, 
although  a  prisoner  ;  therefore,  while  I  leave  you 
to  examine  these  papers  (hands  papers,)  received 


330  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  III. 

from  Mr.  Worreiidorf,  I  rely  upon  your  honor  not 
to  attempt  to  escape. 

COUNT. 

Your  confidence  is  not  misplaced,  believe  me. 
[Exit  Jailor.]  —  (Looks  at  papers.)  My  friend 
is  unwearied  in  my  cause.  But  I  am  a  soldier, 
and  have  every  held  my  life  at  the  disposal  of  the 
king.  If  Sophia  were  free  and  happy,  I  could 
look  upon  death  with  an  undaunted  spirit.  (Puts 
up  papers.)  How  like  an  angel  she  appeared 
when  last  I  gazed  upon  her  heavenly  face  —  now 
glistening  with  the  tear,  now  radiant  with  the 
smile  of  beauty  ! 

SONG LANISKA. 

The  gentle  bird  on  yonder  spray, 
That  sings  its  little  life  away  ; 
The  rose-bud  bursting  into  flower, 
And  glittering  in  the  sun  and  shower  ; 
The  cherry-blossom  on  the  tree  — 
Are  emblematic  all  of  thee. 

Yon  moon  that  sways  the  vassal  streams, 
Like  thee  in  modest  beauty  beams  ; 
So  shines  the  diamond  of  the  mine, 
And  the  rock-crystal  of  the  brine  ; 
The  gems  of  heaven,  the  earth  and  sea, 
Are  blended,  all,  dear  maid,  in  thee ! 


SCENE  III.]  WHO  *S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  331 


SCENE    III. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Gallery  of  Paintings  at 
Sans  Souci.  Enter  ALBERT  and  WEDGEWOOD 
in  haste,  meeting  the  Countess  LANISKA. 

ALBERT. 

Have  you  seen  the  king  ? 

COUNTESS. 

His  Majesty  has  not  yet  appeared. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

A  crate  of  mouldy  straw  for  your  warlike  gov 
ernment  !  (Snaps  his  fingers. )  That  for  your 
soldier-like  system  of  doing  business  1  I  wouldn't 
give  a  broken  basin  for  it !  Why,  the  command 
ing  officer  has  only  to  say,  "  Hang  me  up  that 
tall  fellow,  like  a  scarecrow,"  and  up  he  goes  — 
tzck  !  —  or,  "  Give  me  that  short  chap  the  cat-o* 
nine-tails/7  and,  whack,  he  has  it  —  or,  "  Shoot  me 
yonder  half-dozen  specimens  of  humanity,"  and, 
bang,  't  is  done ! 

(Enter  FREDERICK,  followed  by  HAROLD,  unper- 
ceived,  at  the  back  of  the  stage.) 

ALBERT. 

If  the  king  would  but  listen  to  reason  — 


332  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [Acx  III. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Ay,  but  he  won't !  I  never  saw  such  a  resolute 
old  curmudgeon  ;  and  then  he  ?s  so  proud,  too  ! 
He 's  like  a  hard-baked  stone  jar — he  won't  bend 
anyhow.  I  know  why  he  gave  me  his  snuff-box  : 
it  was  because  I  happened  to  help  myself  to  a 
pinch  olit  of  the  dirty  old  trumpery !  If  he,  or 
you,  or  all  of  you,  by  any  chance  happened  to 
live  in  England,  or  any  other  civilized  country, 
this  poor  count,  and  the  girl  too,  would  have  an 
impartial  hearing  before  they  were  condemned. 

COUNTESS. 

But  under  this  government  we  have  blessings 
unknown  to  yours  — 

WEDGEWOOD. 

But  me  no  buts,  madam !  Give  me  the  bless 
ings  of  living  under  a  government  where  no  man 
can  be  condemned  without  a  fair  trial  by  jury, 
madam.  To  you  Prussians,  this  is  a  matter  of 
favor  ;  but  to  us  Englishmen,  it  is  a  matter  of 
right  ! 

COUNTESS. 

Would  to  Heaven  that  my  son  and  this  poor 
girl  could  have  such  a  trial !  — 

ALBERT. 

And  would  to  Heaven  I  might  plead  their 
cause  ! 


SCENE  III.]  WHO'S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  333 

( The  King,  who  has  paid  great  attention  to  their 
conversation,  walks  down  the  stage,  and  sud 
denly  stands  in  the  midst  of  them.  They  all 
start,  and  fall  back.) 

KING. 

On  one  condition  you  shall  — 

OMNES. 
The  king ! 

KING. 

On  one  condition,  young  man,  your  prayer  shall 
be  granted. 

ALBERT. 

Name  it,  sire  — 

KING. 

If  you  fail  to  convince  the  judges  of  their  inno 
cence,  that  you  shall  share  their  punishment.  Do 
you  agree  ? 

ALBERT. 

I  do,  and  set  my  life  upon  the  issue. 

KING. 

Your  life  shall  answer  for  it  if  you  fail.  (To 
HAROLD.)  Give  orders  that  the  hall  of  the  cas 
tle  be  immediately  prepared  for  the  trial.  Use 
despatch,  Harold!  {Exit  HAROLD.]  (To  the 
Countess.)  You,  madam,  I  believe  to  be  wholly 
ignorant  of  your  son's  treachery. 


334  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [Acr  III. 

COUNTESS. 

If  he  be  guilty  — 

KING  (sarcastically.) 
If  he  be  guilty,  madam  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Yes,  sire  ;  if  he  has  forgotten  what  Your  Ma 
jesty  has  done  for  Poland,  he  is  no  son  of  mine ! 

KING. 

I  shall  spare  you  all  the  reflections  I  have  made 
on  the  subject,  madam.  Tyrant  as  I  am,  I  shall 
not  punish  the  innocent  mother  for  the  guilty 
son.  But  perhaps  this  gentleman  [ALBERT]  and 
you  [WEDGEWOOD]  recommended  trial  — 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Trial  by  jury  !  Your  Majesty  has  said  it ! 
There 's  freedom  in  the  very  words  ! 

KING. 
How  is  it  to  be  managed  ? 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Managed,  Your  Majesty  ?  Why,  according  to 
law  and  justice. 

KING. 

Good! 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Twelve  honest,  upright,  free,  and  independent 
men  are  empanelled  to  hear  the  case  — 


SCENE  III.]  WHO  ?S   THE   TRAITOR  ?  335 

KING. 

Good  again ! 

WEDGEWOOD. 

All  the  witnesses  are  examined,  and  all  the  tes 
timony  fairly  summed  up  by  learned  counsel! 

KING. 

Excellent ! 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Then  the  grave  expounders  of  the  law  —  the 
judges  —  charge  the  jury,  who,  upon  their  oaths, 
return  a  verdict  — 

KING. 

A  glorious  institution  1 

WEDGEWOOD. 

The  shield  and  protection  of  the  rights  of  man 

the  bulwark  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  — 

and  the  admiration  of  the  whole  civilized  world ! 
Democratically  odd ! 

KING. 

Well — well  —  well — so  justice  be  done,  I  care 
not  for  the  means, 

WEDGEWOOD. 

By  jingo,  he  >s  genuine  porcelain !  It 's  all 
right  —  fair,  square,  and  above  board  —  a  clear 
field  and  no  favor ! 


336  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY;    OR,  [Acx  III. 

(Enter  HAROLD.) 

HAROLD. 

Everything  is  in  preparation.  The  judges  are 
proceeding  to  their  seats  ;  the  jury  will  soon  be 
sworn,  and  the  prisoners  arraigned  at  the  bar  — 

WEDGEWOOD  (to  HAROLD.) 

"Who 's  the  crier  of  the  court  ? 

HAROLD. 

That  office  is  not  yet  filled.  [Exit. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

That  won't  do  — Illegally  odd  ! 

KING. 

Perhaps,  Mr.  Wedgewood,  you  would  like  the 
appointment  yourself  ? 

WEDGEWOOD. 

If  it  is  convenient. 

KING. 

I  confer  it  upon  you. 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Thank  Your  Majesty.  By  Jove,  we  're  sailing 
with  wind  and  tide  —  a  smooth  sea  below  and  a 
clear  sky  above  us  ! 

KING. 

Well,  gentlemen,  I  wish  you  a  prosperous  voy- 


SCENE  III.]  WHO  *S    THE    TRAITOR  ?  337 

age  ;  but  take  care  that  you  do  not  run  your  ves 
sel  upon  the  rocks  of  litigation,  and  founder  among 
the  quicksands  of  the  law. 

WEDGEWOOD.     . 

No  danger.  Your  Majesty,  with  such  a  pilot  ! 
[ALBERT.]  —  (Sudden  and  loud  shouts  and  con 
fused  noise  without.  Drums  beat  to  arms.) 
What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  commotion  ? 

(Enter  HAROLD,  in  haste.) 

KING. 

Out  with  it,  Harold  ! 

HAROLD. 

The  rumor  of  the  treachery  and  ingratitude  of 
the  prisoners  has  spread  like  wildfire  throughout 
the  city  — 

KING. 
Well!  — 

HAROLD. 

The  populace  are  in  a  ferment  at  the  indignity 
offered  to  our  beloved  monarch,  and  demand  the 
instant  execution  of  the  prisoners. 

KING. 
Well,  well ;  say  on. 

HAROLD. 

The   multitude  crowd   every  avenue   to   the 
22 


338  THE   MAID    OF    SAXONY  J    OR,  [ACT  III. 

palace,  and  the  chateau  of  the  countess  ;  and  the 
royal  guards  are  under  arras  to  preserve  the  pub 
lic  peace. 

KING, 
So,  so,  so,  so  — 

COUNTESS. 

O  Heaven !  what  will  become  of  us  ? 
KING  (proudly). 

Have  you  not  the  king's  protection  ?  I  will 
appear  among  my  children,  who  are  so  apprehen 
sive  about  my  safety,  that  they  sometimes  forget 
themselves,  and  become  a  little  unruly.  They  will 
be  satisfied  when  they  hear  and  see  their  father. 
(Seeing  the  Countess  look  dejected?)  Do  not  droop, 
madam  ;  your  guilty  son  shall  have  a  fair  and 
impartial  trial.  ( Taking  her  hand. —  To  ALBERT 
sternly. )  Look  to  it,  sir  ;  for  if  you  fail,  you  know 
what  follows!  (Exit  FREDERICK  and  Countess. 
—  Immense  cheering  and  beating  of  drums  with 
out.) 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Bravo  !  He  ?s  a  trump. — Bless  me !  a  popular 
commotion! — No  matter  —  I  am  crier  of  the 
court  !  Let  me  catch  any  of  the  little  boys 
making  a  noise  in  the  halls  of  justice  —  that's  all ! 
I  '11  make  the  king  himself  mind  his  P's  and  Q's, 
if  he  dare  to  interfere  with  our  grave  delibera 
tions  !  I  will  act  as  becomes  my  station.  His 


SOKNE  III.]  WHO  'S    THE    TRAITOR  ?  339 

Majesty  has  a  jewel  in  me,  and  I  '11  convince  him 
that  authority  in  my  hands  is  a  knock-down  argu 
ment  —  so-fist-ically  odd  ! 

SONG WEDGEWOOD. 

That  law's  the  per  feet  ion  of  reason, 

No  one  in  his  senses  denies  ; 
Yet  here  is  a  trial  for  treason 

Will  puzzle  the  wigs  of  the  wise. 
The  lawyers  who  bring  on  the  action 

On  no  single  point  will  agree, 
Though  proved  to  their  own  satisfaction 

That  tweedle-dum  's  not  tweedle-dee ! 

To  settle  disputes,  in  a  fury 

The  sword  from  the  scabbard  we  draw  ; 
But  reason  appeals  to  a  Jury, 

And  settles  —  according  to  law. 
Then  hey  for  the  woolsack  ! — for  never 

Without  it  can  nations  be  free  ; 
But  trial  by  jury  for  ever  I 

And  for  tyranny  —  fiddle-de-dee  ! 

{Exit. 


340  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [Acx  III. 


SCENE     THE    LAST. 

Discovered.  The  whole  stage  is  thrown  open,  and 
represents  the  Hall  of  the  Palace  at  Potsdam, 
arranged  as  a  court-room.  On  a  carpeted  plat 
form  is  the  royal  seat  of  state,  occupied  by  three 
Judges.  On  the  right  and  left  of  them  are 
cushioned  seats  for  the  King  and  his  retinue, 
and  Officers  of  state.  In  front  of  the  judgment- 
seat  is  a  large  centre-table,  on  which  are  vari 
ous  law-books  and  the  Prussian  Yase.  Around 
the  table  are  suitable  places  for  the  Advocates 
in  the  cause.  On  each  side  are  elevated  benches, 
occupied  by  the  Girls  of  the  Factory,  behind 
whom  are  stationed  platoons  of  the  Royal 
Guards.  At  the  end  of  the  benches  on  the 
right  is  the  jury-box,  with  twelve  Jurors,  and 
the  desk  of  the  Crier,  on  which  is  a  small  mal 
let.  Around  the  whole  stage  is  a  large  gallery, 
crowded  with,  the  Citizens  of  Potsdam.  —  The 
entire  scene  is  intended  to  represent  an  English 
Criminal  Court  of  Law  of  the  olden  time,  in 
full  costume,  with  scarlet  robes,  ermine  gowns, 
etc. — The  following  Characters  are  discovered 
in  their  respective  places :  Baron  ALTENBERG, 
the  Attorney-General  and  Advocate  for  the 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO  ?S    THE   TRAITOR?  311 

Crown  ;  the  Workmen  of  the  Factory,  as  Wit 
nesses  ;  the  Jailor,  HANS,  GERTRUDE,  HAROLD, 
and  Corporal  ;  Count  LANISKA,  guarded,  at 
tended  by  the  Countess  and  FREDERICA  ;  SOPHIA 
MANSFIELD,  guarded,  and  attended  by  Factory- 
Girls  ;  ALBERT,  as  Advocate  for  the  Prisoners, 
and  WEDGEWOOD,  as  Crier  of  the  Court ;  Of 
ficers  of  state,  Ladies  of  the  Court,  Porters  of 
the  Hall,  and  the  King.  —  This  scene  is  ac 
companied  by  the  Orchestra.  —  Music  as  the 
scene  opens  — 

CHORUS. 

With  mercy  let  justice 

To  mortals  be  given, 
For  Justice  and  Mercy 

Are  twiii-born  of  heaven  ! 

(As  Baron  ALTENBERG  rises,  WEDGEWOOD  says, 
in  a  subdued  tone  of  voice,  and  very  respect- 
fully.} 

WEDGEWOOD. 

Silence  in  the  court ! 

ALTENBERG. 

May  it  please  your  lordships,  these  facts  are 
not  denied  :  the  inscription  in  the  handwriting  of 
the  count ;  his  free  access  to  the  factory  ;  his 
frequent  use  of  the  word  tyrant  when  speaking  of 
the  king ;  his  earnest  interest  in  the  Saxon  maid  : 


342  THE   MAID    OF   SAXONY;    OR,  [ACT  III. 

her  love  for  the  count,  and  her  opposition  to  the 
will  of  our  most  gracious  sovereign  for  allotting 
her  to  the  overseer  as  his  bride :  and  they  all 
unite  in  establishing  their  crime,  the  punishment 
of  which  is  death.  Had  not  His  Majesty  chanced 
to  wipe  off,  with  his  own  handkerchief,  the  blue 
paint  which  concealed  the  word  tyrant,  the  vase 
would  have  been  sent  to  Paris,  the  king  and  peo 
ple  disgraced,  and  the  criminals  safe  in  Saxony. 
Yes,  gentlemen  (to  the,  Jury,)  this  splendid  orna 
ment,  which  is  to  be  known  to  all  future  ages  as 
"  The  Prussian  Vase,"  is  defaced  with  the  trea 
sonable  inscription  —  "To  Frederick  the  Great 
Tyrant." 
KING  (rising  in  excitement,  and  forgetting  him- 

self.) 

Yes,  soldiers  and  subjects,  friends  and  children, 
this  word  is  applied  to  me  —  to  your  father  —  by 
these  base  ingrates  here  !  — 

CHORUS. 

Shame,  shame,  shame ! 
Long  live  the  king  !  etc. 

WEDGEWOOD  (in  a  commanding  tone,  and  striking 

the  desk  with  his  mallet.) 
Silence  in  the  court,  or  I  '11  put  you  in  the 
stocks,  juvenile  delinquents  and  all !     What  au. 
odd  people  ! 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO  >S   THE    TRAITOR  ?  343 

KING. 

I  beg  the  indulgence  of  your  lordships  for  my 
infirmities  of  temper.  Let  the  cause  proceed. 
( Takes  his  seat.) 

JUDGE. 

The  case  for  the  crown,  gentlemen,  is  fully  be- 
fore  you,  and  is  submitted  in  the  confidence  that 
you  will  discharge  your  duty  faithfully. 

KING  (again  forgetting  himself.) 
Ay,  discharge  your  duty  faithfully ! 

WEDGEWOOD  (with  great  authority  rapping  on  the 

desk.) 
Silence  in  the  court,  Your  Majesty  ! 

JUDGE. 
Let  the  counsel  for  the  prisoners  now  proceed. 

ALBERT. 

Place  Karl  in  the  witness-box. 

(Enter  KARL  and  HAROLD.) 

SOLO    AND    CHORUS. 
KARL. 

What  outrage  more,  at  whose  command 
Am  I  thus  shackled  and  restrained  ? 

What  mockery  >s  this  ?  In  this  free  land 
The  subject's  rights  should  be  maintained. 


34-i  THE   MAID    OF    SAXOXY  J    OR,  [Aox  III. 

CHORUS. 

The  traitor  braves  the  king's  command ! 

KARL. 

Those  whom  the  lion  would  ensnare, 
Should  of  his  reckless  fangs  beware ! 
The  forest-monarch,  held  at  bay, 
Will  turn  and  spring  upon  his  prey  ! 

CHORUS. 

Thus  bold  will  guilt  full  oft  appear !  — 
The  sword  of  Justice  let  him  fear ! 

WEDGEWOOD  (as  KARL  is placedin  the  witness-box.) 
Silence  in  the  court ! 

CHORUS. 

With  mercy  let  justice 

To  mortals  be  given  ; 
For  Mercy  and  Justice 

Are  twin-born  of  heaven. 

KARL. 

Why  am  I  summoned  here  against  my  will  ? 

ALBERT. 

You  are  here  to  answer,  not  to  question,  sirrah ! 

KARL. 

By  what  authority  do  you  command  my  an 
swers  ?  In  these  realms  the  king  alone  commands. 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO  7S   THE    TRAITOR?  345 

KING  (again  forgetting  himself.) 

That's  true — that's  very  true  —  the  king 
alone  commands  — 

WEDGEWOOD  (shaking  his  mallet  at  the  King.) 
What,  Your  Majesty  —  you  will  —  will  you  1 

KING. 

Oh,  I  have  forgotten  myself  again!  (Takes 
his  seat)  Confound  the  fellow  ! 

KARL  (aside.) 

The  king  here  ?  Then  I  have  one  friend  at 
least  on  whom  I  may  rely.  (To  King.)  Shall 
I  —  may  I  speak  freely  ? 

KING. 

The  king  has  no  authority  now.  (Pointing  to 
the  jury-box)  There  are  the  sovereigns  of  the 
people,  and  to  them  you  must  appeal.  (Aside.) 
What  a  situation  for  a  monarch  ! 

ALBERT  (to  KARL). 

You  know  yon  Saxon  maid  and  the  Count 
Laniska  ? 

KARL. 

I  do,  and  hate  the  count ! 

ALBERT. 

Wherefore  ? 


346  THE   MAID   OF   SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  III. 

KARL. 

He  has  thwarted  my  designs !  —  No,  no,  I  mean 
not  that!  I  mean  that  I  hate  him  because  he 
plotted  treason  against  the  king,  and  wrote 
' '  Tyrant n  upon  the  vase. 

ALBERT. 

Did  he  write  it  ? 

KARL. 

He  did  —  these  eyes  beheld  him. 

COUNT  (aside.] 
The  perjured  caitiff ! 

SOPHIA. 
0  Heaven,  have  mercy  upon  us ! 

COUNTESS. 

They  are  lost ! 

(Countess  leans  on  FREDERICA.  The  King  beckons 
to  HAROLD,  who  goes  to  him.  They  engage  in 
earnest  conversation,  occasionally  pointing  to 
KARL.  HAROLD  is  supposed  to  be  informing 
him  of  the  arrest  of  KARL  in  SOPHIA'S  cell. 
KARL  leaves  the  witness-box,  and  is  about  to 
retire,  but  is  stopped  by  HAROLD.) 

ALBERT. 

Call  the  German  inn-keeper  to  the  stand. 

[HANS  is  placed  in  the  box. 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO'S    THE    TRAITOR?  347 

KARL  (aside) 
I  tremble  with  apprehension  ! 

ALBERT  (tO  HANS.) 

You  deal  in  colors  —  do  you  not  ? 

HANS. 

Yaw,  mynheer. 

ALBERT. 

Have  you  sold  any  in  Berlin  lately  ? 

HANS. 

Yaw,  mynheer  ;  I  sold  some  of  der  Prussian 
blue  to  der  Hungarian  overseer  of  der  factory, 
who  gave  me  monish  to  say  netting  about  it.  He 
tried  der  quality  upon  dis  little  scrap  of  baper, 
vich  he  forgot,  and  vich  I  kept,  mit  der  intention 
of  giving  him  back  ven  I  saw  him  again.  It  is 
scrawled  all  over  mit  der  word  "  Tyrant? 

KARL  (forgetting  himself.) 
That  paper  ?s  mine  —  give  it  me  ! 

WEDGEWOOD  (instantly  snatching  the  paper  and 

holding  it  up,  exclaims  in  a  loud  tone)  — 
It 's  not  convenient  !     (Hands  the  paper  to 
ALBERT,  who  reads  it  to  the  Judges.) 

ALBERT. 

An  attempt  to  imitate  the  handwriting  of  the 
count.  Compare  it  with  the  word  upon  the  vase 


348  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  ;    OR,  [ACT  III. 

JUDGE. 

It  is  the  same  ! 

CHORUS. 

Huzza  !  huzza  !  etc. 

WEDGEWOOD  (forgetting  himself,  after  the  chorus 
has  finished,  shouts  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice,) 
Huzza  !  —  (which  the  King  observing,  rises  to 
call  him  to  order  ;  when  WEDGEWOOD,  noticing 
the  King,  places  his  hand  upon  his  own  mouth  ; 
and  looking  round,  and  holding  his  mallet  in 
a  threatening  manner  over  KARL,  who  is  silent, 
by  way  of  excusing  his  mistake,  says)  —  But 
silence  in  the  court !  ( The  King,  shaking  his 
finger  at  WEDGEWOOD,  takes  his  seat ;  HANS 
leaves  the  box) 

ALBERT. 

Place  that  workman  on  the  stand.  (It  is  done.) 
Did  you  ever  see  this  vase  before  ? 

WORKMAN. 

Yes,  sir. 

ALBERT. 

Where  ? 

WORKMAN. 

I  saw  Karl  receive  it  for  the  furnace,  and  I  saw 
him  marking  upon  it  with  a  sharp  instrument, 


SCENE  IV. J  WHO'S   THE   TRAITOR?  349 

which  he  suddenly  hid  in  his  bosom.  (KAUL  feels 
for  his  dagger,  and  half  draws  it,  looking  at 
SOPHIA  ferociously.  SOPHIA  observes  him  nar 
rowly,  and  with  great  apprehension^) 

ALBERT. 

Who  took  the  vase  from  the  furnace  ? 

WORKMAN. 

Karl. 

ALBERT. 

Who  had  possession  of  it  afterward  ? 

WORKMAN. 

Karl 

ALBERT. 

Who  pointed  out  the  word  "Tyrant"  to  the 
king  at  the/efe  of  the  countess  ? 

KING  (rising  with  great  emotion,  and  entirely  for 
getting  himself.) 
Karl ! 

ALBERT. 

Who  has  misled,  blinded,  and  deceived  the 
king  ? 

KING  (with  great  emotion.} 

Traitorous,*  fiendlike  Karl ! 

0 

KARL  (aloud J 
I  am  stunned  with  horror  ! 


350  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY  J    OR,  [Acx  III. 

KING  (leaving  his  seat,  and  coming  down  in  great 
haste  —  WEDGEWOOD  raises  his-  hammer.) 

By  your  leave,  Mr.  Wedgewood. 

CHORUS  (as  the  KING  descends.} 
Long  live  the  king  !  etc. 

( The  King  takes  his  station  in  the  centre  of  the 
stage,  and  lifts  his  hat.) 

KING. 

If  the  court  please  — 

WEDGEWOOD  (aside.) 

Bravo  !  His  Majesty  is  becoming  a  principal 
witness  !  (In  a  subdued  tone  of  voice.)  Silence 
in  the  court !  —  The  king  speaks  ! 

KING  (rapidly.) 

I  see  it  all !  The  case  is  clear.  Karl  had  my 
permission  to  espouse  Sophia.  She  refused  him. 
Laniska  loved  her.  Karl  hated  him,  and  planned 
her  destruction  ;  visited  her  in  prison  ;  tried  to 
force  her  to  fly  the  country  with  him  ;  she  refused, 
and  he  would  have  slain  her,  had  not  Mr.  AYedge- 
wood,  the  Advocate,  and  Harold  —  who  has  just 
told  me  all  —  struck  him  to  the  ground.  Karl 
plotted  this  mischief — Karl  bought  the  paint  — 
.Karl  wrote  the  word  —  and  Karl  shall  DIE  ! 


SCENE  IT.]  WHO  >S    THE    TRAITOR  ?  35] 

KARL  (draws  his  dagger) 

^  But  not  not  unavenged  !  (He  darts  toward 
SOPHIA,  and  makes  an  attempt  to  stalker.  SOPHIA 
shrieks,  and  runs  to  LAXISKA.  All  the  Characters 
rise,  greatly  excited,  and  watch  the  scene  with  deep 
interest.  The  Guards  present  their  pikes  to  the 
breast  O/KARL,  who  is  seized  by  HAROLD  and  Cor 
pora  \-~in  the  brief  struggle  with  whom,  KARL'S 
shirt-sleeve  is  torn  open,  and  the  felon's  brand  is 
discovered  on  his  arm.  To  this  ALBERT  points  in 
triumph.  ~  Tableau.  —  The  whole  action  is  in 
stantaneous.) 

HAROLD  (with  great  eagerness.} 
Behold,  my  liege,  the  felon's  brand  !   (Presto! 
—  all  start  with  astonishment.) 

CHORUS. 
Now,  who >s  the  traitor  ? 

f  The  Jurymen  rise. 

QUINTETTE    AND    CHORUS. 
KARL. 

The  javelin  from  an  unseen  hand 
Was  sent  that  laid  me  low !  — 

Behold  exposed  the  felon's  brand 
Unto  my  mortal  foe  ! 

CHORUS. 

Who  >s  now  the  traitor  ?  etc. 


352  THE    MAID    OF    SAXONY;    OR,  [Acr  IIL 

JUDGE  (promptly.) 
What  say  the  jury  ? 

FOREMAN  (promptly.) 

The  prisoners  are  innoceut  I     (Presto  !  —  att 
start  with  joy.) 

CHORUS. 

The  prisoners  are  innocent !  etc. 

(Some  of  the  Characters  clasp  their  hands  — 
others  embrace.  SOPHIA  and  LANISKA  turn  to 
ALBERT,  and  the  Countess  and  FREDERICA  to 
the  King,  in  gratitude.) 

KARL. 

Oh,   rage  and  fury!      (KARL   is   secured  by 
HAROLD  and  Corporal.) 

CHORUS. 

Rejoice  !  our  loyal  hearts  we  bring 
As  free-will  offerings  to  the  king ! 

SOLO SOPHIA    TO    KING. 

Oh,  let  me  to  thy  ermine  cling 

In  gratitude,  (Icneek,)  God  bless  the  king ! 

CHORUS. 

God  save  the  king  ! 
Long  live  the  king !  etc. 


SCENE  IT.]  WHO  8   TIIK    TRAITOR?  353 

(The  Workmen  and  Girls  of  the  Factory,  Advo 
cates,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen, 
Spectators,  and  all  the,  Characters  on  the  stage, 
indicate  by  appropriate  and  spontaneous  action 
the  deep  and  intense  interest  they  take  in  the 
verdict.  —  KARL  gasps  and  faints,  and  is  sup 
ported  by  HAROLD  and  Corporal.  —  WEDGE- 
WOOD  notices  the  tableau  with  great  self-com 
placency. —  [The  whole  action  is  simultane 
ous.^  —  KARL  is  borne  off  by  HAROLD  and  Cor 
poral.  All  the  Characters  then  turn,  and  ly 
looks  and  actions  congratulate  each  other,  and 
the  scene  instantly  becomes  one  of  general  joy.} 

KING. 

This  court  is  now  dissolved.  ( The  principal 
Characters  leave  their  stations ;  and  all  the  Parties, 
except  the  Judges  and  those  in  the  gallery,  come 
upon  the  stage.  —  To  the  Judges.)  Your  lord 
ships  must  pardon  all  irregularities.  This  is  the 
first  trial  by  jury  that  ever  took  place  in  Prussia. 
Hereafter,  no  human  power  shall  interrupt  your 
grave  deliberations.  (7*0  Count  LANISKA.)  Count 
Laniska,  I  took  your  sword  from  you  this  morn 
ing  :  I  here  present  you  mine.  (Count  kneels,  and 
receives  it.) 

COUNT. 
This,  with  my  life,  I  dedicate  to  Your  Majesty's 

service  ! 

23 


354  THE    MAID    OF    SAXOXY  ;    OR,  [ACT  III 

KING  (to  ALBERT). 

As  for  you,  sir,  the  sword,  is  not  your  weapon. 
(HAROLD  advances  with  a  golden  pen  upon  a 
velvet  cushion.  ALBERT  kneels.)  Receive  this 
emblem  of  far  greater  power  than  all  the  imple 
ments  of  war,  and  wield  it  for  the  benefit  of  man 
kind.  Rise,  Baron 

ALBERT. 

Mansfield,  Your  Majesty  — 

KING  (with  surprise.) 
Mansfield  ? 

SOPHIA. 

My  heart  was  not  deceived  !  My  long-lost 
brother  ! 

ALBERT  (ALBERT  and  SOPHIA  rush  into  each  other's 

arms.) 
My  dear,  dear  sister  ! 

KING  (looking  at  them.) 
So,  so,  so !  Oh,  what  an  old  fool  I  have  been ! 
(Looking  around.)  Come  hither,  Sophia.  (She 
advances;  the  King  takes  her  hand.)  I  owe  you 
some  amends  for  your  long  and  patient  suffering 
on  my  account  (taking  the  Count's  hand)  —  and 
thus  I  make  them.  (SOPHIA  and  LANISKA  join 
hands  joyfully.)  How  well  the  criminals  under 
stand  each  other !  (Rubbing  his  hands,  and 


SCENE  IV.]  WHO  's    THE   TRAITOR  ?  355 

walking  joyfully  about  the  stage.)  Ah,  Mr. 
Wedgewood,  I  don't  care  if  I  take  a  pinch  of 
snuff  out  of  that  same  box  I  gave  you  the  other 
day. 

WEDGEWOOD  (presenting  box.) 
Your  Majesty  has  added  to  its  value  a  diamond 
worth  all  the  rest,  in  finding  it  is  large  enough 
for  two  of  us. 

KING. 

Good  !  (Notices  FREDERICA.)  What !  Freder- 
ica,  my  fair  namesake  and  little  god-daughter  — 
in  the  dumps  ?  (Looking  at  ALBERT.)  Oh,  I 
understand.  (To  Countess.)  By  your  leave, 
madam.  (Hands  FREDERICA  to  ALBERT.)  You 
perceive,  Mr.  Wedgewood,  that  I  have  a  large 
family  to  look  after  and  provide  for  ;  but  I  am  a 
happy  father,  sir  —  mine  are  good  children,  very 
good  children  I  I  wish  I  had  more  like  these. 

WEDGEWOOD  (significantly.) 

If  Your  Majesty  goes  on  in  this  way,  there'll 
be  plenty  more  —  in  time. 

KING. 

All  are  now  satisfied  —  at  least  I  hope  all  are 
so  here.  (To  the  audience.)  If,  as  a  king,  I 
may,  on  another  occasion,  command  an  audi 
ence — 


356  THE    MAID    OF    SAXOXY  ;    OR,  [ACT  III. 

WEDGE  WOOD  (forgetting  himself,  lifting  his  mal 
let  and  flourishing  it  like  an  auctioneer.] 
Going!     (Recollecting  himself.}  —  I  mean  — 
(slowly  and  with  gravity)  —  s-i-1-e-n-c-e    i-n 
t-h-e     c-o-u-r-t !     (meaning  the  audience.) 

KING. 

These  witnesses  will,  I  am  sure,  attend  the 
next  trial  of  THE  MAID  OF  SAXONY  — 

WEDGEWOOD. 

If  it  is  convenient. 

FINALE. 

Our  hearts  are  bounding  with  delight ! 

'T  is  Freedom's  jubilee  \ 
For  right  has  triumphed  over  might  — 
The  bond  again  are  free ! 
Hurrah  !  —  hurrah  I 

Let  the  welkin  ring  ! 
To  Justice  and  Liberty 
Paeans  we  sing ! 

(Tableau —  Curtain  falls.) 


END  OF  THE   MAID   OF  SAXONY. 


NOTES, 


PAGE  51. 
THE    DESERTED    BRIDE 

THIS  poem  was  written  after  seeing  Miss  FANNY  KEMBLE,  for 
the  first  time,  in  one  scene  of  "  The  Hunchback." 

PAGE  57. 
THE  CROTON  ODE. 

WRITTEN  at  the  request  of  the  Corporation  of  the  city  of  New 
York,  and  sung  near  the  Park  Fountain  by  the  members  of  the 
New  York  Sacred  Music  Society,  on  the  completion  of  the  Croton 
Aqueduct,  October  14, 1842. 

PAGE  64. 
WOODMAN,    SPARE    THAT    TREE  ! 

EIDING  out  of  town  a  few  days  since,  in  company  with  a  friend, 
who  was  once  the  expectant  heir  of  the  largest  estate  in  America, 
but  over  whose  worldly  prospects  a  blight  has  recently  come,  he 
invited  me  to  turn  down  a  little  romantic  woodland  pass  not  far 
from  Bloomingdale.  "Your  object?"  inquired  I.  "Merely  to 
look  once  more  at  an  old  tree  planted  by  my  grandfather,  near  a 
cottage  that  was  once  my  father's."  —  "  The  place  is  yours,  then  ?" 
said  I.  "  No,  my  poor  mother  sold  it ;"  and  I  observed  a  slight 


358  NOTES. 

quiver  of  the  lip,  at  the  recollection  of  that  circumstance.  "  Dear 
mother !"  resumed  my  companion,  "  we  passed  many  happy,  hap 
py  days,  in  that  old  cottage  ;  but  it  is  nothing  to  me  now  —  father, 
mother,  sisters,  cottage  —  all  are  gone!"  —  and  a  paleness  over 
spread  his  fine  countenance,  and  a  moisture  came  to  his  eyes,  as 
he  spoke.  After  a  moment's  pause,  he  added  :  "  Don't  think  me 
foolish.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  I  never  ride  out  but  I  turn  down 
this  lane  to  look  at  that  old  tree.  I  have  a  thousand  recollections 
about  it,  and  I  always  greet  it  as  a  familiar  and  well-remembered 
friend.  In  the  by-gone  summer-time  it  was  a  friend  indeed.  Un 
der  its  branches  I  often  listened  to  the  good  counsel  of  my  pa 
rents,  and  had  such  gambols  with  my  sisters  !  Its  leaves  are  all 
off  now,  so  you  won't  see  it  to  advantage,  for  it  is  a  glorious  old 
fellow  in  summer ;  but  I  like  it  full  as  well  in  winter-time.'' 
These  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  my  companion  cried 
out,  "  There  it  is  ?"  Near  the  tree  stood  an  old  man,  with  his  coat 
off,  sharpening  an  ax.  He  was  the  occupant  of  the  cottage. 
"  What  do  you  intend  doing?"  asked  my  friend  with  great  anxiety. 
"  What  is  that  to  you  ?"  was  the  blunt  reply.  "  You  are  not  going 
to  cut  that  tree  down,  surely  ?"  —  "  Yes,  but  I  am  though,"  said 
the  woodman.  "What  for?"  inquired  my  companion,  almost 
choked  with  emotion.  "  What  for  ?  Why,  because  I  think  proper 
to  do  so.  What  for  ?  I  like  that !  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  for. 
This  tree  makes  my  dwelling  unhealthy ;  it  stands  too  near  the 
house  ;  prevents  the  moisture  from  exhaling,  and  renders  us  lia 
ble  to  fever-and-ague."  —  "  Who  told  you  that  ?"  —  "  Dr.  S ." 

—  "  Have  you  any  other  reason  for  wishing  to  cut  it  down  V"  — 
"  Yes,  I  am  getting  old ;  the  woods  are  a  great  way  off,  and  this 
tree  is  of  some  value  to  me  to  burn."  He  was  soon  convinced, 
however,  that  the  story  about  the  fever-and-ague  was  a  mere  fic 
tion,  for  there  never  had  been  a  case  of  that  disease  in  the  neigh 
borhood  ;  and  then  was  asked  what  the  tree  was  worth  for  fire 
wood.  "  Why,  when  it  is  down,  about  ten  dollars."  "  Suppose 
1  make  you  a  present  of  that  amount,  will  you  let  it  stand  V"  — 
"  Yes."  —  "  You  are  sure  of  that?"  —  "  Positive."  —  "  Then  give 
me  a  bond  to  that  effect."  I  drew  it  up ;  it  was  witnessed  by  his 
daughter;  the  money  was  paid,  and  we  left  the  place  with  an  as 
surance  from  the  young  girl,  who  looked  as  smiling  and  beautiful 
as  a  Hebe,  that  the  tree  should  stand  as  long  as  she  lived.  We 
returned  to  the  road,  and  pursued  our  ride.  These  circumstances 
made  a  strong  impression  upon  my  mind,  and  furnished  me  witli 


NOTES.  S5  9 

materials  for  the  song  I  herewith  send  you. — Extract  from  a  Letter 
to  Henry  Russell.,  the  Vocalist,  dated  New  York,  February  1,  1837. 


PAGE  78. 
THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  EVERY  part  of  the  brief  but  glorious  life  of  POCAHONTAS  is 
calculated  to  produce  a  thrill  of  admiration,  arid  to  reflect  the 
highest  honor  on  her  name.  The  most  memorable  event  of  her 
life  is  thus  recorded :  After  a  long  consultation  among  the  Indi 
ans,  the  fate  of  Captain  SMITH,  who  was  the  leader  of  the  first 
colony  in  Virginia,  was  decided.  The  conclave  resumed  their 
silent  gravity.  Two  huge  stones  were  placed  near  the  water's 
edge ;  Smith  was  lashed  to  them,  and  his  head  was  laid  down,  as 
a  preparation  for  beating  out  his  brains  with  war-clubs.  Pow- 
hattan  raised  the  fatal  instrument,  and  the  savage  multitude  with 
their  blood-stained  weapons  stood  near  their  king,  silently  wait 
ing  the  prisoner's  last  moment.  But  Smith  was  not  destined  thus 
to  perish.  Pocahontas,  the  beloved  daughter  of  the  king,  rushed 
forward,  fell  upon  her  knees,  and,  with  tears  and  entreaties, 
prayed  that  the  victim  might  be  spared.  The  royal  savage  re 
jected  her  suit,  and  commanded  her  to  leave  Smith  to  his  fate. 
Grown  frantic  at  the  failure  of  her  supplications,  Pocahontas 
threw  her  arms  about  Smith,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his,  her  ra 
ven  hair  falling  around  his  neck  and  shoulders,  declaring  she 
would  perish  with  or  save  him.  The  Indians  gasped  for  breath, 
fearing  that  Powhattan  would  slay  his  child  for  taking  such  a 
deep  interest  in  the  fate  of  one  he  considered  his  deadliest  foe. 
But  human  nature  is  the  same  everywhere ;  the  war-club  dropped 
from  the  monarch's  hand  —  his  brow  relaxed  —  his  heart  soft 
ened  ;  and,  as  he  raised  his  brave  daughter  to  his  bosom,  and 
kissed  her  forehead,  he  reversed  his  decree,  arid  directed  Smith 
to  be  set  at  liberty !  Whether  the  regard  of  this  glorious  girl  for 
Smith  ever  reached  the  feeling  of  love,  is  not  known.  No  favor 
was  ever  expected  in  return.  « I  ask  nothing  of  Captain  Smith,' 
said  she,  in  an  interview  she  afterward  had  with  him  in  England, 
'  in  recompense  for  what  I  have  done,  but  the  boon  of  living  in 
his  memory.'  John  Randolph  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  this 
noble  woman,  and  was  wont  to  pride  himself  upon  the  honor  of 
his  descent.  Pocahontas  died  in  the  twenty-second  year  of  her 
age." — Sketches  of  Virginia. 


360  NOTES. 

PAGE  82. 
SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 

"SALLIE  ST.  CLAIR  was  a  beautiful,  dark-eyed  Creole  girl. 
The  whole  treasury  of  her  love  was  lavished  upon  Sergeant  Jas 
per,  who,  on  one  occasion,  had  the  good  fortune  to  save  her  life. 
The  prospect  of  their  separation  almost  maddened  her.  To  sever 
her  long,  jetty  ringlets  from  her  exquisite  head  —  to  dress  in  male 
attire  —  to  enroll  herself  in  the  corps  to  which  he  belonged,  and 
follow  his  fortunes  in  the  wars,  unknown  to  him  —  was  a  resolu 
tion  no  sooner  conceived  than  taken.  In  the  camp  she  attracted 
no  particular  attention,  except  on  the  night  before  the  battle,  when 
she  was  noticed  bending  over  his  couch,  like  a  good  and  gentle 
spirit,  as  if  listening  to  his  dreams.  The  camp  was  surprised, 
and  a  fierce  conflict  ensued.  The  lovers  were  side  by  side  in  the 
thickest  of  the  fight ;  but,  endeavoring  to  turn  away  a  lance  aimed 
at  the  heart  of  Jasper,  the  poor  girl  received  it  in  her  own,  and 
fell  bleeding  at  his  feet  ?  After  the  victory,  her  name  and  sex 
were  discovered,  and  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  corps  when 
Sallie  St.  Clair  was  laid  in  her  grave,  near  the  river  Santee,  in  a 
green,  shady  nook,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  stolen  out  of 
Paradise  " — Tale*  of  Marion's  Men. 


PAGE  83. 
JANET   MCREA. 

"  WE  seated  ourselves  in  the  shade  of  a  large  pine-tree,  and 
drank  of  a  spring  that  gurgled  beneath  it.  The  Indians  gave  a 
groan,  and  turned  their  faces  from  the  water.  They  would  not 
drink  of  the  spring,  nor  eat  in  the  shade  of  the  tree  ;  but  retired 
to  a  ledge  of  rocks  at  no  great  distance.  I  ventured  to  approach 
them  and  inquire  the  cause  of  their  strange  conduct.  One  of  the 
Indians  said,  in  a  deep  and  solemn  tone :  '  That  place  is  bad  for 
the  red-man  ;  the  blood  of  an  innocent  woman,  not  of  our  ene 
mies,  rests  upon  that  spot !  —  She  was  there  murdered.  The  red- 
man's  word  had  been  pledged  for  her  safety  ;  but  the  evil  spirit 
made  him  forget  it.  She  lies  buried  there.  No  one  avenged  her 
murder,  and  the  Great  Spirit  was  angry.  That  water  will  make 
us  more  thirsty,  and  that  shade  will  scorch  us.  The  stain  of  blood 
is  on  our  hands,  and  we  know  not  how  to  wipe  it  out.  It  still 


NOTES.  361 

rests  upon  us,  do  what  we  will.'  I  could  get  no  more  from  them ; 
they  were  silent,  even  for  Indians.  It  was  the  death  of  Miss 
McEEA  they  alluded  to.  She  was  betrothed  to  a  young  American 
by  the  name  of  Jones,  who  had  taken  sides  with  the  British,  and 
become  a  captain  in  their  service.  The  lovers,  however,  had 
managed  to  keep  up  a  correspondence ;  and  he  was  informed, 
after  a  battle  in  which  he  distinguished  himself  for  his  bravery, 
that  his  inamorata  was  concealed  in  a  house  a  few  miles  from 
Sandy-Hill.  As  it  was  dangerous  for  him  to  go  to  her,  he  en 
gaged  a  party  of  confidential  Indians  to  take  his  horse  to  her 
residence  and  bring  her  to  his  tent  in  safety.  He  urged  her,  in 
his  letter,  not  to  hesitate  a  moment  in  putting  herself  under  their 
protection  ;  and  the  voice  of  a  lover  is  law  to  a  confiding  wo 
man.  They  proceeded  on  their  journey,  and  stopped  to  rest 
under  a  large  pine-tree  near  a  spring — the  one  at  which  we 
drank.  Here  they  were  met  by  another  party  of  Indians,  also 
sent  by  the  impatient  lover,  when  a  quarrel  arose  about  her 
which  terminated  in  her  assassination.  One  of  the  Indians 
pulled  the  poor  girl  from  her  horse  ;  and  another  struck  his  tom 
ahawk  into  her  forehead,  tore  off  her  scalp,  and  gashed  her 
breast !  They  then  covered  her  body  'with  leaves,  and  left  her 
under  the  huge  pine-tree.  One  of  the  Indians  made  her  lover 
acquainted  with  the  facts,  and  another  brought  him  her  scalp. 
He  knew  the  long  brown  tresses  of  Miss  McEea,  and,  in  defi 
ance  of  all  danger,  flew  to  the  spot  to  realize  the  horrid  scene. 
He  tore  away  the  thinly-spread  leaves  —  clasped  the  still-bleed 
ing  body  in  his  arms,  and,  wrapping  it  in  his  cloak,  was  about 
bearing  it  away,  when  he  was  prevented  by  his  superior  officers, 
who  ordered  the  poor  girl  to  be  buried  on  the  spot  where  she 
had  been  immolated.  After  this  event  a  curse  seemed  to  rest 
upon  the  red-man.  In  every  battle  their  forces  were  sadly  cut  up 
—  the  Americans  attacking  them  most  furiously  whenever  they 
could  get  an  opportunity.  The  prophets  of  the  Indians  had 
strange  auguries  ;  they  saw  constantly  in  the  clouds  the  form  of 
the  murdered  white  woman,  invoking  the  blasts  to  overwhelm 
them,  and  directing  all  the  power  and  fury  of  the  Americans  to 
exterminate  every  red-man  of  the  forest  who  had  committed  the 
hateful  deed  of  breaking  his  faith  and  staining  the  tomahawk 
with  the  blood  of  a  woman,  whose  spirit  still  called  for  revenge. 
It  was  agreed  among  the  Indians  in  a  body  to  move  silently 
away ;  and  by  morning's  light  not  a  red-man  was  to  be  found 


362  XO:ES. 

near  the  British  troops.  Captain  Jones,  too,  was  no  more..  In 
the  battle  he  led  on  his  men  with  that  fearlessness  and  fury  that 
distressed  minds  often  do ;  but  his  men  grew  tired  of  following 
him  in  such  perilous  attacks,  and  began  to  fly.  As  he  returned 
to  rally  them  he  received  a  ball  in  his  back.  Burning  with 
shame,  love,  and  frenzy,  he  turned  and  threw  himself  on  the 
bayonets  of  the  enemy,  and  at  once  closed  his  agonies  and  ex 
piated  his  political  offence.  He  was  laid  by  the  side  of  her  he 
had  so  ardently  loved  and  deeply  lamented."— Events  of  the  Revo 
lution. 

PAGE  88. 

They're  gone  with  my  last  shilling. 
"  THIS  is  a  fact,  and  no  poetic  fable." — Byron. 

PAGE.  88. 

Florence's  Saloon. 
A  MUCH-FREQUENTED  restaurant  in  Broadway 

PAGE  88. 
Sunny-Side. 
THE  country  residence  of  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

PAGE  89. 

The  luxury  of  wo. 
W-H-O-A  ! 

PAGE  90. 
A  wheel  rigged  for  a  tiller. 

A  PECULIARITY  of  Commodore  Christopher  B.  Miller's  yacht, 
"  The  Ultra." 

PAGE  91. 
Long  live  the  valiant  Mayor. 

"  If  you  want  me,"  said  His  honor,  at  the  Astor-Place  riots,  on 
the  evening  of  the  10th  of  May,  1849,  "  you  will  FIND  ME—  at  the 
New-York  Hotel !" 


NOTES.  363 

PAGE  131. 

THE    PRAIRIE    ON    FIRE. 

THIS  ballad  is  founded,  in  part,  upon  a  thrilling  story  of  the 
"West,  related  by  Mr.  COOPER,  the  novelist. 

PAGE  146. 

THE  SWEEP'S  CAROL. 

WRITTEN  to  be  sung  in  character,  for  the  purpose  of  introducing 
the  wild,  peculiar,  and  well-known  cry  or  carol  of  the  sweeps  of 
New  York. 

PAGE  166. 

THE    FALLEN   BRAVE    OF   MEXICO. 

WRITTEN  at  the  request  of  the  Corporation  of  the  city  of  New 
York,  for  the  funeral  solemnities  to  Lieutenant-colonel  BAXTER, 
Captains  BARCLAY  and  PIERSON,  and  Lieutenants  CHANDLER  and 
GALLAGHER,  of  the  New  York  Volunteers,  who  died  upon  the 
battle-fields  of  Mexico.  Sung  by  the  members  of  the  New  York 
Sacred  Music  Society,  on  Wednesday,  the  12th  day  of  July,  1848, 
in  front  of  the  City  Hall. 

PAGE  169. 

THE    CHAMPIONS    OF    LIBERTY. 

WRITTEN,  at  the  request  of  the  Common  Council  of  the  city  of 
New  York,  for  the  funeral  solemnities  in  honor  of  the  gallant  and 
lamented  Major-General  WORTH,  Colonel  DUNCAN,  and  Major 
GATES,  late  of  the  United  States  army.  Sung  by  the  Sacred  Music 
Society  in  the  balcony  in  front  of  the  City  Hall,  Thursday,  No 
vember  15,  1849. 

PAGE  182. 

THE    ROCK    OF    THE    PILGRIMS. 

"  The  Mayflower  having  arrived  in  the  harbor  from  Cape  Cod, 
MARY  CHILTON  entered  the  first  landing-boat,  and,  looking  for 
ward,  exclaimed,  *  I  will  be  the  first  to  step  on  that  rock.'  Ac 
cordingly,  when  the  boat  approached,  Mary  Chilton  was  per 
mitted  to  be  the  first  from  that  boat  who  appeared  on  the  rock, 
and  thus  her  claim  was  established."—  Thacher's  "History  of 
Plymouth^  p.  30. 


364 

PAGE  184. 
THE  SOLDIER'S  WELCOME  HOME. 

SUNG  at  the  New  York  Tabernacle,  on  the  evening  of  April 
18, 1849,  by  Mr.  NASH,  with  a  chorus  of  a  thousand  voices. 

PAGE  185. 
THE    ORIGIN    OF   YANKEE   DOODLE. 

THIS  jeu  cPesprit  was  written  for  and  sung  by  the  HUTCHINSON 
FAMILY. 

PAGE  189. 
NEW   YORK    IN    1826. 

THIS  address,  which  has  a  local  interest,  is  republished  at  the 
request  of  several  of  the  author's  friends  —  one  of  whom  "  desires 
to  preserve  it  as  one  of  the  curiosities  of  rhyme  ;"  and  another 
"  as  a  picture  of  New  York,  and  its  belongings,  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago." 

PAGE  189. 
STANZA    I. 

"  S.  W."  are  the  initials  of  my  much-lamented  friend,  the  late 
SAMUEL  WOODWOETH,  Esq. 

She  ichispers  of  coaches, 
And  lockets  and  broaches  — 
refers  to  the  holiday-presents  in  vogue  at  the  time. 

PAGE  190. 
STANZA   II. 

contains  the  name  of  an  institution  whose  failure  created  great 
consternation  in  Wall  street. 

PAGE  190. 
STANZA   IV. 

GAS-LIGHT  was  introduced  into  New  York  about  that  period, 
and  the  gas-burners  were  formed  in  the  shapes  here  mentioned. 


NOTES.  365 

PAGE  191. 

STANZA   V. 

Seats  on  the  Battery. 

AT  the  time  alluded  to  there  were  none ;  and  there  was  inces 
sant  warfare  between  the  press  and  the  lessees  of  Castle  Garden, 
which  was  finally  settled  by  the  interposition  of  the  Common 
Council,  who  caused  seats  to  be  placed  on  the  Battery  for  the  ac 
commodation  of  the  public. 

PAGE  191. 
STANZA   VI. 

THIS  stanza  contains  the  names  of  the  fashionable  poets  aiid 
editors  of  the  day. 

PAGE  192. 
STANZA   VII. 

LAFAYETTE  visited  New  York  during  the  administration  of 
Governor  CLINTON.  The  stanza  also  alludes  to  the  then-recent 
completion  of  the  Erie  Canal,  and  to  the  troubles  in  Greece, 
which  occupied  much  of  the  public  attention. 

PAGE  192. 
STANZA  VIII. 
THE  Bowery  Theatre  was  built  in  1826. 

PAGE  193. 
STANZA   X. 

THE  Garcia  troupe  were  then  performing  at  the  Park  Theatre, 
and  they  were  the  first  that  produced  Italian  operas  in  this  coun 
try.  The  KB  AN  riot  had  recently  occurred. 

PAGE  193. 
STANZA   XI. 

NAMES  of  the  Museums  and  other  shows,  giants  and  Indians 
being  then  their  principal  attractions. 


366  NOTES. 

PAGE  194. 
STANZA  XII. 

DESCRIPTIVE  of  the  manner  in  which  the  New  Year  was  ush 
ered  in. 

PAGE  195. 
STANZA  XIII. 

THE  "NEW  YORK  MIRROR"  was  one  of  the  earliest  periodicals 
devoted  to  American  letters. 

PAGE  249. 
THE   MAID    OP   SAXONY. 

THIS  Opera  was  first  performed  at  the  Park  Theatre,  on  the 
25th  of  May,  1842,  and  ran  fourteen  successive  nights.  It  was 
entirely  and  completely  successful,  being  nightly  received  with 
cheers. 


THE    END. 


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